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LIBRARY  OF  THE  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


PRINCETON.  N.  J. 


Presented  by 

C^ovVV\ 


on 


Division 


Section..*. 


EZ  3 
H32  6  L 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


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https://archive.org/details/lighterofflamesOOhart 


—Frontispiece 

“BUTfAS  FOR  ME-GIVE  ME  LIBERTY  OR  GIVE  ME  DEATH!” 


A 

LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


BY  ^ 

WILLIAM  S.  HART 


Author  of  ‘  Told  Under  a  White  Oak  Tree,”  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR  BY 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY  FLAGG 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1923, 

By  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Company 

Second  Printing 
Third  Printing 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO 

V.  E.  R. 

Who  gave  me  so  much  help 
along  a  strange  trail 


FOREWORD 


In  the  writing  of  this  romance  I  have  satis¬ 
fied  a  desire  which  I  have  long  had,  to  present 
to  the  American  public  a  living,  vivid  picture 
of  that  true  American  of  whose  life  and  his¬ 
tory  so  little  is  known,  but  whose  heart  was  big 
with  love  of  country;  who  did  not  know  the 
name  of  fear;  and  who  dared  to  speak  forth 
his  convictions  at  a  time  when  to  do  so  meant 
the  spark  of  revolt  to  the  tinder  of  oppression, 
the  stroke  to  the  rousing-bell  of  Liberty, — 
namely,  Patrick  Henry. 

As  the  story  has  unfolded,  I  have  found  it 
necessary  to  transpose  some  dates  and  inci¬ 
dents,  but  in  the  main  the  thread  of  the  central 
figure’s  life  runs  true.  I  have  called  it  in  my 
own  mind  fictional  history — an  effort  to  make 
that  vibrant  past  and  its  heroic  actors  live 
again. 

Aside  from  works  of  history  which  have  been 


FOREWORD 


consulted,  I  acknowledge  a  grateful  debt  to 
Wirt’s  “Life  of  Patrick  Henry,”  written  at 
Richmond,  Va.,  in  1817,  and  published  some 
time  thereafter. 


William  S.  Hart 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Buying  of  Patience  Conwell  .  .  7 

II.  At  the  Cock’s  Feather  Inn  .  ...  33 

III.  Shadows  of  Clouds . 57 

IV.  He  of  the  Silver  Tongue . -71 

V.  A  Rising  Sun . 79 

VI.  The  Rumbling . 107 

VII.  “I’ll  Ride  Again,  Your  Excellency  !”  .  131 

VIII.  Young  Hearts . 151 

IX.  Fair  Friends  at  Court . 165 

X.  When  Love  Betrays  Its  Own  .  .  .  .179 

XI.  A  Woman’s  Kiss . 207 

XII.  The  Lighter  of  Flames  .....  231 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Done  in  color  by  James  Montgomery  £lagg 

“But  as  for  me — give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death !” 

(242) . Frontispiece 

PAGE 

It  was  a  struggle  well  worth  watching  .  .  .  .25 

There  was  something  imperious  in  that  silent  wait¬ 
ing  . 122 

He  heard  what  he  was  listening  for — the  click  of  the 

key  in  the  lock . 222 


A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


A  Lighter  of  Flames 

CHAPTER  i 

THE  BUYING  OF  PATIENCE  CONWELL 

IT  was  springtime  in  Virginia,  in  the  year 
1774.  High  blue  skies,  flecked  with  fleecy 
clouds,  cupped  the  New  World  like  a  flower 
in  its  chalice.  Young  life  was  rampant — 
young  life  of  leaf  and  vine,  of  bird  and  beast 
and  human.  Young  life  of  a  country,  too,  of 
hope  and  ideals  and  ambition.  The  warm 
airs,  scented  with  rich  and  nameless  blooms, 
swept  over  fields  pushing  thick  with  new 
crops,  while  the  tang  of  the  sea  came  in  with 
subtle  sweetness. 

In  the  streets  of  Jamestown  on  a  golden, 

sunlit  morning,  equipages  and  persons  on  foot 

were  wending  their  ways  to  a  common  goal, 

namely,  the  waterside  of  the  River  James, 

7 


8 


A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


where  the  good  ship  Helen ,  but  lately  come 
from  overseas,  lay  warped  at  her  moorings. 

In  the  Helen  had  come  passengers,  some 
two  hundred  of  them,  of  differing  estates  and 
purposes,  and  these  were  warmly  welcomed 
in  the  small  world  of  the  Colonies.  How 
eagerly  were  they  invited  to  its  spacious 
homes,  set  in  their  flourishing  fields  of  to- 

they  listened  to  as 
they  descanted  on  that  other  world  across  the 
"wide  waters!  Gossip  of  notables,  of  events 
nigh  three  months  old,  of  fashions — all  this 
found  instant  favor  in  mansion  and  hut  and 
tap-room. 

But  the  Helen  carried  other  freight  than 
becurled  and  powdered  adventurers,  seeking 
excitement  and  gain.  Sad  freight! — for  in 
her  hold  came  that  most  pitiful  of  all  com¬ 
modities,  a  consignment  of  human  slaves. 
White  people  they  were,  called  in  more  polite 
parlance,  bond-servants,  yet  slaves  to  all  in¬ 
tents  and  purposes. 

Out  of  the  English  prisons  they  came,  to 


bacco!  How  keenly  were 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


9 


be  sent  to  Virginia  and  sold  to  the  planters, 
under  indenture,  for  certain  years  of  labor. 

They  were  a  motley  lot  which  the  Mother 
Country  turned  loose  upon  her  offspring — 
some  highwaymen,  some  worse;  and  others 
mere  failures  in  a  struggle,  hard  at  best  in  a 
crowded  land,  to  live. 

These  latter  were  from  the  Debtors’  Prison, 
old  men,  hollow-eyed  and  hopeless,  and  sev¬ 
eral  women. 

But  what  would  you?  The  blacks  were 
few  as  yet,  laborers  were  scarce  in  the  Col¬ 
onies,  and  the  Indians  then,  as  now,  were  not 
hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water. 

The  tobacco  fields  were  many  and  sadly  in 
need  of  cultivation,  for  the  gentry  was  more 
given  to  brocade  than  homespun,  to  leisure 
than  work.  Most  of  them  were  descendants 
of  families  of  means  who  boasted  their  coro¬ 
nets  and  their  seals. 

It  was  a  gaily  attired  throng  which  at¬ 
tended  the  sale  that  warm  spring  day.  There 
were  the  Randolphs,  the  Churchills,  the  Lees, 


10  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


and  many  representatives  of  other  blue- 
blooded  famihes  of  Virginia,  together  with 
their  ladies.  Interspersed  with  these  honor¬ 
able  folk  were  the  brutal  traders,  who  bought 
to  sell  again. 

F or  the  most  part  these  were  a  certain  type, 
easily  recognized.  They  were,  necessarily,  of 
a  more  or  less  cruel  persuasion;  for  none  other 
would  have  so  bartered  in  human  flesh.  Some 
of  them  carried  short-stocked,  long-lashed 
whips,  which  they  did  not  hesitate  to  use  as 
constant  reminder  to  their  unfortunate  prop¬ 
erty  that  they  were  masters,  supreme  and 
powerful. 

In  a  green,  low  spot  not  far  from  the 
wharf’s  edge  had  been  set  up  a  huge  block,  a 
section  cut  from  what  had  once  been  a  noble 
tree,  and  clustered  back  of  this  were  the  serv¬ 
ants  to  be  sold.  Some  of  these  were  hard-vis- 
aged  men,  with  rebellion  stamped  upon  them. 
Some  were  meek  and  ashamed,  but  most  of 
them  were  sturdy  and  strong. 

The  Old  World  knew  what  the  New 


PATIENCE  CONWELL  11 

World  wanted  and  picked  its  stock  accord¬ 
ingly. 

A  wide  circle  of  attendants  ringed  the  green. 
Ladies  in  rich  garments  and  powdered  hair 
raised  glasses  in  jeweled  hands,  the  better  to 
inspect  the  interesting  merchandise,  and 
bowed  from  the  windows  of  their  coaches  to 
this  gallant  and  that.  A  little  way  apart,  as 
if  she  somehow  seemed  upon  a  separate  and 
delectable  plane,  a  young  girl  sat  upon  a 
horse.  Maid  and  mount  were  alike  noticeable 
in  a  land  whose  women  were  always  beautiful 
and  whose  horseflesh  was  beginning  to  be  a 
type  of  its  own. 

She  was  just  turned  twenty,  that  entranc¬ 
ing  age  when  the  charm  of  youth  is  adding  to 
itself  the  cleverness  of  new  experience. 

Her  face  was  oval,  and  of  a  delicate  olive 
tint  that  threw  out  in  arrogant  beauty,  like  a 
shining  jewel  on  a  velvet  base,  the  dusky  glow 
of  lip  and  cheek.  The  wide  eyes  beneath  the 
sweeping  red-brown  lashes  were  true  hazel, 
that  mysterious  and  unsettling  shade  which  is 


12  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


neither  brown  nor  blue  but  partakes  of  the 
beauty  of  both.  The  hair  that  shone  under 
the  little  hat  she  wore  was  red-brown,  like  the 
lashes,  and  it  was  full  of  wayward  rings. 

No  sooner  had  the  young  horse,  mottled 
and  slim,  and  brown  as  his  mistress’  locks, 
taken  up  his  restless  stand  on  the  green’s  far 
edge,  than  an  instant  audience  drew  out  of  the 
crowd.  Macaronies  in  embroidered  coats, 
with  snuff-boxes  and  slender  canes,  seemed 
to  spring  from  the  very  turf,  full-panoplied. 
For  this  was  none  other  than  Mistress  Penel¬ 
ope  Dunmore,  daughter  of  Lord  Dunmore, 
the  Governor  of  Virginia. 

Young  Timothy  Lovelace,  son  of  a  pep¬ 
pery  and  wholehearted  Irish  planter,  whose 
keen  tongue  had  won  him  a  somewhat  unen¬ 
viable  fame  among  his  English  neighbors,  was 
the  first  to  reach  the  girl’s  side. 

“A  good  day,  Mistress  Penelope,”  he  said, 
with  a  bow  whose  like  was  hard  to  match  for 
grace  in  all  the  Colony.  “The  rogues  behind 
the  block  are  well  complimented,  I  vow,  to 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


13 


have  brought  to  the  spectacle  of  their  sale  the 
fairest  lady  in  Virginia.” 

There  was  a  slight  brogue  in  his  musical 
voice,  and  his  deep  blue  eyes  said  a  daring  lot 
more  than  his  smiling  lips. 

“You  are  quick  of  speech,  Mr.  Lovelace,” 
said  the  girl  as  quickly;  “but  does  it  not  be- 
speak  many  golden  hours  idled  away  in  cogi¬ 
tation  on  the  neat  turn  of  words,  the  best  way 
in  which  to  compliment  a  lady’s  looks?” 

“A  peg  of  ale  on  that,  Tim,”  said  Harry 
C orton,  coming  up  with  young  Jack  Frisbee 
to  kiss  Penelope’s  white  hand;  “she  tripped 
you  there  for  fair.  ’Tis  a  lovely  head  that 
can  hold  beauty  and  wit  together.” 

And  he,  too,  told  Mistress  Penelope  some 
eloquent  things  with  a  glance  and  a  sigh.  But 
the  girl  looked  down  upon  them  from  her 
side-saddle  with  a  pretty  and  quiet  smile. 

“You  blades!”  she  scoffed,  “do  you  do  noth¬ 
ing,  pray,  but  ogle  the  fair?  Oh,  for  a  real 
man,  who  is  not  afraid  of  honest  labor  and 
accomplishment !” 


14  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


The  discomfited  trio  laughed,  perforce,  and 
flecked  their  ruffles,  preening  against  the  ob¬ 
servation  of  the  many  feminine  eyes  that  were 
sure  to  turn  their  way  during  the  morning. 
Suddenly  Mr.  C orton  turned  to  her. 

“Perchance,  Mistress  Pen,  your  wish  is  an¬ 
swered.  Yonder  stands  what  might  fill  the 
description.”  He  nodded  toward  the  far  side 
of  the  green,  where  the  less  aristocratic  of  the 
spectators  were  gathered. 

Just  beyond  this  fringe,  somewhat  removed, 
stood  a  figure  leaning  against  a  horse — a  tall, 
lean  figure  of  a  man,  broad  of  shoulder,  nar¬ 
row  of  hip,  straight  as  any  Indian  of  the  wil¬ 
derness.  His  face  was  tanned  by  the  free 
winds  and  the  sunlight  to  a  smooth  darkness. 
He  was  clad  from  cap  to  moccasins  in  the 
buckskin  of  the  woodsman.  Except  for  his 
cast  of  feature  and  the  nondescript  ribbon  ty¬ 
ing  back  his  pale  hair  in  some  sort  of  con¬ 
formity  to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  one  might 
well  have  taken  him  for  a  half-breed. 

Indolence  was  in  every  line  of  his  panther- 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


15 


like  body,  as  he  leaned  against  the  horse.  Lev¬ 
ity  and  devilment  showed  in  every  twinkle 
of  his  care-free  blue  eyes. 

The  girl  looked  in  his  direction,  while  a 
ripple  of  amusement  passed  around  among 
her  gallants,  this  time  at  her  expense. 

“Fie  upon  you,  Harry!”  cried  Lovelace. 
“You  do  but  insult  that  intelligence  which  I 
just  now  ascribed  to  Mistress  Penelope. 
Strike  him  from  your  favor  for  the  next  co¬ 
tillion,  Mistress,  for  he  knows  full  well  he  does 
but  jest.” 

“And  why?”  asked  the  girl.  “Who  is  the 
man  yonder?” 

“You  do  not  know?  ’Odsblood!  I  thought 
all  Virginia  knew  its  most  notorious  ne’er-do- 
well — its  riding,  fishing,  fiddling,  smiling  son 
of  the  forests,  whose  fame  is  passing  wide  in 
these  parts.  That  is  Patrick  Henry,  the 
lout.” 

“Sometimes  we  who  are  so  swift  at  snap- 
judgment,”  she  said,  sagely,  “come  a  header, 
are  hoist  by  our  own  petard.  Who  knows? 


16  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Even  the  lout  might  prove  himself  a  man, 
given  the  time  and  place  and  a  great  enough 
incentive.” 

The  stentorian  voice  of  the  auctioneer  was 
calling  together  the  prospective  buyers;  the 
crowds  were  edging  in,  and  in  the  general 
movement  the  girl  on  the  brown  horse,  at¬ 
tended  by  the  gallants  on  foot,  went  a  trifle 
forward. 

Her  clear  young  eyes  roved  over  the  un- 
happy  group  behind  the  block,  and  a  small 
line  drew  in  between  her  arching  brows. 

Perhaps  of  all  that  chattering  throng  that 
gay  spring  morning,  she  alone  felt  something 
of  their  tragedy.  At  any  rate,  she  had  seem¬ 
ingly  forgotten  the  young  men  beside  her,  and 
her  pensive  glance  betokened  that  she  was 
a-dream  upon  some  forbidding  subject. 

She  saw  the  first  merchandise  put  upon  the 
block,  a  huge  YorksTiireman,  heavy  of  feature, 
scowling-eyed,  and  saw  him  quickly  sold  for 
seven  years  of  labor;  for  muscles  bloomed 


PATIENCE  CONWELL  17 

along  his  naked  arms  and  strength  was  ram¬ 
pant  in  him. 

A  debtor  went  next,  one  of  the  older  men, 
with  a  pale,  fine  face — a  vastly  higher  type 
than  the  master  who  bought  him — after  desul¬ 
tory  bidding. 

Then  mounting  quickly  in  his  place  came  a 
girl,  a  stoic,  blonde  creature,  who  stood  up 
straightly  and  faced  her  fortunes  with  steady 
lips.  She  was  easeful  and  lithe,  standing  with 
modesty  and  downcast  look;  and  the  bidding 
quickened  promptly. 

Two  or  three  young  planters,  looking  her 
over,  began  to  call  out  offers  under  the  crier’s 
urge,  and  one  of  the  traders,  Gabe  McCool 
by  name,  edged  in  and  shot  a  brisk  bid  up. 

This  man  was  known  the  country  round  for 
one  of  the  most  brutal  of  his  ilk;  a  huge  bulk 
of  a  man,  red  of  face,  lowering  of  eye,  who 
bought  and  sold — at  profit,  always  at  profit. 
Now  his  repulsive  face  glowed  deeply  and  he 
flourished  his  whip,  while  he  studied  the  lass 


18  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


with  open  calculation.  At  his  coarse  voice 
cutting  in,  the  girl  upon  the  block  cast  a  swift 
look  at  him  and  seemed  to  shrink.  For  the 
first  time  an  expression  of  fear  spread  on  her 
face,  and  she  raised  large  blue  eyes  under  fair 
lashes  and  looked  slowly  around  at  the  ring  of 
onlookers.  Some  were  interested,  some  indif¬ 
ferent,  intent  only  on  the  opportunity  for 
gossip  which  the  gathering  offered;  others 
were  amused,  and  nearly  all  were  smiling. 
What  meant  one  comely  servant-girl  more  or 
less  to  them! 

But  the  slow  blue  eyes  halted  when  they 
reached  one  face  with  eyes  answering  her 
appeal,  whose  hazel  orbs  were  deep  pools  of 
sympathy.  Of  all  that  gathering  Mistress 
Penelope  Dunmore  alone  looked  into  the  hu¬ 
man  heart  on  the  selling-block  and  saw  there 
terror  of  Gabe  McCool,  sudden,  gripping  fear 
that  sapped  the  courage  with  which  it  had 
faced  its  fate  before. 

The  young  Miss  on  the  brown  horse  moved 
uneasily  in  her  saddle. 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


19 


Once  more  the  crier  called  for  bids,  and 
once  more  the  planters  answered.  Once 
more  the  trader  raised  their  bids.  Another 
raise,  and  two  of  the  planters  dropped  out. 
A  third,  a  man  from  up  the  James,  stuck  with 
him  for  a  time  or  two,  and  the  price  was  now 
reaching  high-water  mark.  At  the  next  call 
this  man  shook  his  head.  He  was  a  kindly 
man,  and  the  girl  was  good  property,  but  the 
trader  was  forcing  her  up.  McCool  edged  in 
as  the  auctioneer  raised  his  gavel.  As  he 
neared  the  block,  grinning,  his  stock-whip  un¬ 
der  his  arm,  the  lass  moved  backward  instinc¬ 
tively,  and  once  again  her  blue  eyes  raised  and 
shot  a  look  across  the  heads  of  the  crowd  to 
the  fair  face  under  the  brown  hair.  It  was  a 
pitiful  look,  a  sweet  look — a  desperate  look. 
It  told  that  other  young  heart,  swiftly,  many 
things;  such  as  a  common  innocence  between 
them,  a  love  of  life,  and  that  dear  virtue  which 
only  a  woman  can  comprehend — and — fear! 
It  was  an  appeal,  an  offering  of  faith,  as  if, 
somehow,  there  were  help  in  that  other  heart. 


20  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


And  there  was  promise  of  future  fidelity  m 
it,  too. 

Mistress  Penelope  saw  all  these  things  in 
that  one  deep  glance.  Upon  the  instant  she 
rose  in  her  stirrup,  and  her  clear  young  voice 
cut  sweetly  out  on  the  still  air. 

She  raised  the  trader’s  bid. 

At  this  unheard-of  thing — a  lady  of  Virginia 
bidding  in  open  market ! — all  heads  turned  her 
way.  Looks  of  surprise  were  bent  upon  her; 
the  chatter  ceased. 

Gabe  McCool  flung  round,  his  face  black 
with  anger,  to  gaze  at  her. 

But  she  was  the  Governor’s  daughter,  and 
all  knew  her  to  be  the  darling  of  that  stern  old 
martinet’s  heart,  spoiled  from  her  cradle  by 
indulgence ;  if  so  sweet  a  nature  could  be  said 
to  be  so.  Now  the  hazel  eyes  were  darker 
than  their  wont,  and  a  spot  of  deeper  red  was 
beginning  to  burn  in  either  cheek. 

Nip  and  tuck  went  the  bids,  rapped  out  by 
McCool,  called  sweetly  and  clearly  by  Penel¬ 
ope.  A  hushed  awe  fell  upon  the  gathering. 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


21 


Away  beyond  all  precedent  had  gone  the  price 
of  one  servant-girl  from  Lancashire,  and  for 
no  apparent  reason. 

The  trader  was  rich.  He  had  caught  that 
instinctive  shrinking  of  his  prospective  prop¬ 
erty  upon  his  approach,  the  look  in  the  wide 
blue  eyes.  His  square  jaw  was  set  like  a  lock. 

So,  at  last,  he  named  a  figure  which  only  a 
very  rich  man  might  equal.  The  Governor’s 
daughter  dropped  her  lifted  hand  and  turned 
her  head  away.  There  was  genuine  distress  in 
the  fairest  face  in  the  Colonies. 

The  auctioneer  raised  his  hammer — called 
‘ — waited — called — called  again — and  Ihen 
shot  out  the  fatal  word  which  sent  McCool 
striding  forward  with  a  grin  upon  his  evil 
face. 

He  stepped  upon  the  block,  reached  up  a 
hand,  caught  the  girl’s  wrist  and  jerked  her 
down  forcibly,  so  that,  naturally  a  creature 
of  grace  and  slow  movement,  the  blue-eyed 
lass  stumbled  and  came  down  a-sprawl.  At 
the  laugh  which  followed,  rippling  around  the 


22  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


circle  of  spectators  like  a  wave,  a  deep  crimson 
dyed  her  face  and  the  blue  eyes  blazed  with  a 
sudden  spirit. 

The  trader  swung  her  around  and,  for  no 
reason  save  one  of  pure  bravado  at  his  triumph 
over  the  aristocracy,  flecked  his  whip  most 
dextrously,  so  that  its  lash  curled  around  her 
feet. 

At  the  same  moment  he  raised  the  wrist 
he  held,  and  with  the  swiftness  of  a  cat  the 
slave-girl  bent  and  set  her  teeth  deep  in  the 
flesh  of  his  forearm. 

It  was  a  purely  psychological  action,  a  cul¬ 
mination  of  all  the  wrongs  she  had  suffered, 
of  the  fear  and  the  despair. 

It  drew  a  breath  of  amazement  from  the 
throng  and  many  buzzing  comments. 

“La!  La!  The  wench  is  murderous!” 
“Pity  the  trader  for  his  bargain!”  “A  hussy 
from  the  London  stews!”  and  so  forth. 

But  one  heart  stopped  a  beat  and  then 
plunged  on  in  angry  sympathy — that  of  the 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


23 


girl  on  the  young  brown  horse.  Her  eyes 
were  dark  and  fiery.  She  stood  in  her  stirrup. 
One  fair  hand  was  clenched  into  a  fist.  A 
red  spot  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

“The  brute!”  she  muttered. 

For  Gabe  McCool,  his  red  face  black  with 
rage,  was  exercising  his  new  prerogative. 
He  raised  the  whip  and  brought  it  down  sav¬ 
agely  across  the  girl’s  shoulders.  It  was  a 
significant  fact  that  she  stood  erect  under  the 
indignity,  though  her  lately  flushed  face  went 
milk  white  and  her  eyes  were  blazing  flames  of 
hatred. 

It  was  not  a  pretty  sight,  albeit  no  uncom¬ 
mon  one. 

What  lifted  it  out  of  the  ordinary  was  the 
fact  that  it  involved  somewhat  the  daughter  of 
Governor  Dunmore. 

As  for  Mistress  Penelope,  she  stood  in  her 
stirrup  and  watched.  Her  small  hand  was 
lifted,  still  clenched  into  an  adorable  fist. 

“My  heart!”  she  gritted  between  her  pretty 


24  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


teeth,  “now  is  the  time  to  prove  a  man!  Will 
you,  my  masters,  stand  by  and  see  the  slave  I 
coveted  be  bruised  by  that  wretch ?” 

Her  clear  voice  rose  and  carried. 

“Mistress  Penelope,”  began  Tim  Lovelace, 
placatively,  “  ’tis  the  trader’s  privilege.  The 
wench  is  his.  Set  us  a  task  of  gentlemen  and 
we’d  give  you  our  blood,  any  one  of  us.” 

“Bah!”  cried  Penelope,  and  brought  the  lit¬ 
tle  fist  so  violently  down  upon  the  brown 
beauty’s  neck  that  he  jumped  in  surprise. 

Over  across  the  green  a  figure  raised  itself 
lithely  from  its  lazy  position  against  a  roan 
horse  and  with  incredible  swiftness  threaded 
the  crowd.  In  a  fraction  of  a  second  it  had 
crossed  the  space  between  the  spectators  and 
the  block,  and  reached  the  trader  and  his  vic¬ 
tim.  It  was  a  lean  figure  in  well-worn  buck¬ 
skins,' — tall,  graceful,  powerful.  With  one 
leap  it  cleared  the  last  distance  and  landed  full 
upon  McCool. 

At  the  sudden  impact  the  trader  was  jostled 
from  his  hold  upon  the  girl,  who  was  flung 


IT  WAS  A  STRUGGLE  WELL  WORTH  WATCHING 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


25 


roughly  aside  to  gather  herself  up  and  stand 
panting,  gazing  wide-eyed  upon  the  struggle 
which  followed. 

It  was  a  struggle  well  worth  watching.  In 
fact,  it  soon  became  better  than  that;  for  the 
gallants  and  macaronies,  crowding  in,  began 
to  lay  wagers  to  the  delighted  taking  of  snuff. 

For  though  McCool  was  a  square-built  man 
and  passing  strong,  the  other  was  quick  and 
hard  in  every  muscle  that  rose  along  his  arms 
and  shoulders.  He  was  The  Forest  incarnate 
— its  slow  growth  and  its  health,  its  toughness 
and  its  pliability. 

And  he  fought  laughing.  The  deep  blue 
eyes  that  were  so  smiling  soft  when  he  lay  be¬ 
neath  a  cloud-flecked  sky,  were  now  alive  with 
dancing  devils  of  enjoyment  as  he  leaped  for 
the  trader  like  a  panther  for  its  prey.  It  was 
instant  combat.  Thud  and  stroke  and  shuffle, 
it  flashed  into  fury  with  that  first  impact,  and 
they  fought  to  the  finish  from  the  start.  Back 
and  forth  they  went,  this  way  and  that,  with 
the  crowd  surging  after.  Buckskin’s  blows 


26  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


were  lightning-swift.  They  took  the  trader 
here  and  there,  snapped  up  his  chin,  set  his 
nose  to  bleeding,  filled  him  with  red  rage  but 
left  him  no  opening. 

Then  they  came  together.  The  square  man 
had  the  advantage  for  a  time.  They  strained 
and  panted,  and  the  bets  changed  face.  Again 
they  broke  away.  McCool  was  swaying  with 
the  mad  lust  of  punishment.  He  lunged  and 
countered  wildly,  crazy  as  an  infuriated  bull, 
and  as  dangerous.  But  the  other  played  with 
him  prettily,  so  that  admiring  comments 
passed  in  the  crowd,  and  at  last,  as  if  the  thing 
were  becoming  tiresome  and  he  would  fain 
end  it,  the  slim  man  of  the  forest  rushed  for¬ 
ward  like  a  catapult,  caught  his  adversary  in  his 
arms,  rushed  him  backward,  stumbling,  all  but 
falling,  past  the  block  and  to  the  water’s  edge. 
Then,  with  a  mighty  heave  and  effort — for 
McCool  was  a  heavy  man — he  stooped, 
gripped,  lifted,  strained  backward  and  liter¬ 
ally  threw  him  into  the  tide  below.  It  was  a 
splendid  show  of  strength  and  mental  calcula- 


PATIENCE  CONWELL  27 

tion.  A  great  cheer  went  up  from  the  watch¬ 
ers  in  sheer  admiration. 

“  ’Sdeath!”  cried  that  same  Mr.  Corton  who 
had  jested  a  short  while  before  at  Buckskins, 
“but  that  was  a  passing  show  of  prowess!” 

“And,”  cut  in  Mistress  Penelope,  in  a  sur¬ 
charged  voice,  “methinks,  gentlemen,  that  our 
hero  is  that  same  ne’er-do-well  whom  you  so 
kindly  described  to  me — the  riding,  fishing, 
fiddling  son-of-the-f  orest — Patrick  Henry! 
It  remained  for  the  lout  to  turn  gallant  and 
dare  when  the  gallants  failed.” 

At  the  ice  in  her  tone  the  young  men  looked 
chagrined,  but  had  no  answer.  None  was 
needed,  for  they  were  dragging  the  trader, 
nigh  drowned  and  completely  cowed,  from  the 
River  J ames,  and  the  girl  was  all  eyes  for  the 
performance. 

As  he  scrambled  up,  Patrick  Henry  turned 
to  the  Governor’s  daughter  and  smiled  directly 
at  her.  She  saw  the  laughing  devils  in  his 
blue  eyes. 

“Mistress,”  he  said  clearly,  “will  you  name 


28  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


the  price  you  wish  to  pay  for  the  young  wench 
yonder?” 

Without  a  second’s  hesitation  she  named 
her  last  bid. 

Henry  turned  to  McCool. 

“The  lady  will  pay  that  price.  Do  you 
withdraw — or  sell  under  your  own  bid,  which 
is  more  according  to  law  and  custom?” 

The  trader  frowned  and  would  not  answer; 
but  Henry  stepped  toward  him  once  more  and 
he  hastily  agreed. 

Presently  the  tall  man  in  the  buckskins  led 
forward  the  lass  from  Lancashire  and,  lifting 
her  hand,  laid  it  in  that  of  the  girl  on  the  brown 
horse.  The  two  maidens  looked  into  each 
other’s  eyes,  and  a  sort  of  awe  at  their  good 
fortune  was  visible  in  each  young  face. 

“Your  name,  girl?”  asked  the  lady. 

“Patience,  Mistress,”  the  other  answered; 
“Patience  Conwell.” 

Then  Mistress  Penelope  held  out  that  same 
small  hand  to  Patrick  Henry,  the  ne’er-do- 
well. 


PATIENCE  CONWELL 


29 


“Sir,”  she  said  distinctly,  so  that  all  heard, 
“it  has  been  my  great  good  fortune  to  behold 
today  a  man — when  I  was  wishing  that  one  of 
that  rare  gentry  might  appear.  We  thank 
you,  the  lass  and  I,  for  that  precious  drubbing 
which  you  gave  the  trader.” 

“Knife  me!”  muttered  Timothy  Lovelace, 
“but  that  was  a  hard  one!” 

But  Patrick  Henry  had  taken  the  white 
hand,  and,  stooping  from  his  great  height,  he 
kissed  it  as  gallantly  and  gracefully  as  any  of 
his  betters  might  have  done. 


AT  THE  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  THE  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN 

THE  golden  sun  was  going  down  behind 
Virginia’s  hills  on  a  day  not  so  long  after  the 
sale  of  slaves  in  Jamestown.  Its  last  light 
was  gorgeous  on  forest  and  sward,  gilding  the 
roofs  of  the  stout  houses  the  Colonists  had 
builded  for  themselves  all  up  and  down  the 
lovely  land.  Where  a  cross-roads  lay  whitely 
among  the  green,  sweet  with  the  smell  of  trod¬ 
den  dust,  a  long  low  building  sat  sedately,  its 
log  walls  and  deep  verandas  offering  simple 
welcome  to  the  wayfarer. 

The  host  himself,  round-stomached  and  with 
a  plain  benignity  of  feature,  stood  in  the  cool 
shadows  with  his  hands  clasped  under  his 
coarse  white  apron.  Many  a  day  did  the  good 
man  stand  thus  looking  up  the  Jamestown 
pike,  for  most  of  his  fortunes  came  that  way. 

33 


34  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Behind  him,  in  the  wide  doorway,  a  young 
lass  stood,  smiling. 

She  was  rather  tall,  deeply-moulded,  and 
her  shoulders  were  carried  with  a  martial  air 
that  would  have  better  befitted  a  brother,  had 
she  possessed  one.  Her  head  was  beautiful, 
shaped  on  lines  of  strength  and  intelligence; 
her  brow  broad  and  fair,  and  the  face  beneath 
the  soft  dark  hair  was  live  and  spirited. 
Over  the  sparkling  dark  eyes  long  lashes  swept 
with  constant  movement,  and  tiny  crinkles 
drew  them  prettily  at  the  corners  when  she 
smiled,  which  was  very  often.  She  looked  at 
the  broad  back  of  the  tavern-keeper  now  with 
a  quizzical  expression. 

“Father,”  she  said  presently,  with  a  little 
ripple  of  laughter  in  her  voice,  “who  are  you 
expecting  this  night  of  such  great  impor¬ 
tance?” 

The  tavern-keeper  turned. 

“You  should  know,  my  girl,”  he  answered; 
“for  who  comes  oftenest  to  the  poor  hospital¬ 
ity  of  John  Fairweather?  And  why?” 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  35 


The  girl  laughed  openly,  putting  a  shapely 
hand  on  the  lintel  and  tipping  back  her 
head. 

“Who?  Why,  the  blades  from  Jamestown, 
of  course.  And  for  the  golden  ale  whose 
fame  is  far  in  Virginia — nothing  else.” 

“Fie!  There  is  one  who  comes  and  comes 
again — ” 

“Oh — yes!  Young  Tim  Lovelace,  you 
mean?” 

There  was  innocence  and  raillery  in  the  soft 
voice. 

“Not  he,”  said  John  Fairweather,  “though 
young  Mister  Timothy  is  true  blood  of  the 
country,  and  I  am  flattered  that  he  patronizes 
me.  No,  you  minx!” 

“Oh — then  it  is  the  Fairfaxes  from  beyond 
the  river.” 

John  Fairweather  took!  his  pudgy1  hands 
from  beneath  his  apron  and  snapped  a  finger 
in  vexation. 

“Doxey,  if  you  weren’t  your  mother’s 
daughter,  and  her  dead  these  many  years,  I’d 


36  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


box  those  pink  ears  of  yours!  You  know  full 
well  that  Lord  Les — ” 

“Listen,  father,”  she  broke  in,  brightly — 
“horses’  hoofs  a-pounding  down  the  turn¬ 
pike  this  minute!” 

With  the  words  there  came  on  the  still  air 
of  the  evening  the  rataplan  of  mounts  and 
men  roystering  out  of  the  forest. 

They  came  swiftly  and  pulled  up  with  dash 
and  dust  a-flying  in  the  very  dooryard  of  the 
Cock’s  Feather  Tavern,  some  seven  young 
men  in  the  early  prime  of  their  years,  scions 
of  good  families  all,  reckless  blades,  snuff  - 
taking  macaronies,  gallant  and  handsome  lads, 
bent  on  an  evening  at  cards  and  ale. 

They  swung  down  with  rattle  of  spur,  their 
broidered  coat-tails,  to  a  man,  sticking  out 
over  their  small  sidearms;  for  it  was  the  cus¬ 
tom  of  the  time  to  carry  a  short  sword. 

Six  of  them  were  Harry  Corton,  Jack  Fris- 
bee  and  young  Tim  Lovelace,  along  with 
Brithan  Randolph,  his  cousin  Charles,  and 
that  young  Tom  Jefferson,  about  whose  reck- 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  37 


less  associates  in  other  walks  there  was  begin¬ 
ning  to  be  a  deal  of  gossip. 

The  seventh  was  a  handsome  man,  notice¬ 
able  in  any  gathering,  that  same  Lord  Lester 
whose  name  had  been  on  the  fat  host’s  tongue 
but  a  moment  before.  He  was  slim  as  a 
reed  and  as  graceful. 

Fair  curls  tossed  on  a  head  whose  pride  was 
very  great,  while  deep  blue,  sparkling  eyes  be¬ 
neath  straight  golden  brows  looked  out  on 
the  world  with  challenge.  With  the  instant 
of  his  dismounting  their  swift  glance  leapt  to 
the  girl  in  the  doorway  and  he  lost  no  time 
in  bowing  over  the  hand  she  gave  him  in 
greeting. 

"Fourteen  long  miles,  posthaste,  Mistress 
Doxey,”  he  said  softly,  "to  drink  from  the 
fairest  hand  in  the  Colonies.” 

The  girl  curtsied,  the  curl  hanging  on  her 
shoulder  bobbing  adorably. 

"To  drink  the  best  ale,  you  mean,  my  lord,” 
she  answered  quickly. 

Then  she  turned  inward  to  attend  to  the  du- 


38  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


ties  set  her  by  their  arrival,  and  the  newcomers 
trooped  in  after,  passing  through  the  large 
outer  room  to  a  more  private  one  beyond. 
Here  candles  were  already  lighted  in  sconces 
on  the  rough  walls,  the  benches  drawn  to  the 
heavy  tables,  while  out  of  the  circling  shad¬ 
ows  the  kegs  and  barrels  waited  on  their  tres¬ 
tles,  their  spigots  faintly  odorous.  The  floor 
was  freshly  sanded  and  the  tavern-keeper 
bustled  here  and  yon  like  a  nervous  hen,  set¬ 
ting  forth  cards  and  mugs  for  the  coming 
revel. 

The  young  gentlemen  settled  themselves 
around  the  tables,  their  gay  laughter  filling 
the  soft  spring  night  with  pleasure. 

They  were  friends  all,  yet  of  late  a  thin 
grey  shadow  had  seemed  to  hover  over  these 
merrymakings  when  the  wine  and  ale  were 
flowing  free  and  tongues  were  loosened. 
Sometimes  a  deep  gravity  sat  upon  the  fine, 
mobile  face  of  young  Mr.  Jefferson  when  the 
usual  cup  was  drunk  in  loyalty  to  King 
George,  that  short-sighted  monarch  across  the 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  39 


sea,  and  he  had  once  risen  and  all  but  forgot 
to  drink,  in  the  deep  thought  that  took  him. 
Hands  had  been  lowered  that  time,  eyes  nar¬ 
rowed  and  bps  compressed,  while  his  mates 
waited.  Then  he  had  smiled,  tossed  off  the 
draught,  and  the  tension  was  broken. 

There  was  another,  too,  whose  merry  glance 
scanned  each  face  when  the  speech  swung  to¬ 
ward  the  political  life  of  the  Colonies — Timo¬ 
thy  Lovelace.  But  of  him  later.  Gallant 
Tim  Lovelace,  whose  blood  was  one  day  to  be 
spilled  on  a  glorious  field,  whose  heart  was 
ever  high  with  the  hazard  of  life! 

“Mistress,”  said  Charles  Randolph,  as 
Doxey  Fairweather  came  in  with  a  wooden 
platter  on  which  were  stacked  to  overflowing 
the  little  sugar-sanded  cakes  for  which  the 
girl  was  famous,  “are  we  to  be  favored  tonight 
by  the  white-throated  bird  that  sings  in  the 
outer  room?” 

Doxey  set  her  platter  at  his  elbow  and 
smiled  down  at  him.  In  the  smile  of  this  slim 
daughter  of  the  crossroads  there  was  a  lure  of 


40  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


sweetness,  a  subtle  charm  of  honesty  and  keen 

w 

understanding,  which  drew  men’s  hearts  to¬ 
ward  her,  as  sparks  fly  upward.  The  little 
crinkle  at  her  eye  spoke  of  wit  and  the  ability 
to  see  the  hidden  point  of  badinage.  The 
beautiful  curl  of  her  red  lips,  sweet  and  soft 
with  youth  and  health,  was  tenderness  itself. 
In  her  deft  service  among  her  father’s  tables 
there  was  a  foreshadowing  of  the  faithful 
home-maker,  the  touch  of  universal  mother¬ 
hood.  In  the  deep  heart  of  this  girl  kindness 
was  ever  uppermost.  So  now  she  smiled  at 
Charles  Randolph,  and  it  was  almost  as  if  she 
laid  her  strong,  fine  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
or  caressed  his  powdered  hair. 

“Why,  yes,”  she  said,  simply,  “an  my  fa¬ 
ther’s  guest  likes  my  poor  tunes,  it  pleasures 
me  to  sing  them.” 

So  when  she  had  snuffed  all  the  candles  to 
a  brighter  flame,  and  had  placed  more  cakes 
on  a  shelf  at  the  back,  so  that  none  might  go 
hungry,  she  passed  through  the  door  to  the 
room  beyond,  leaving  it  a  bit  ajar,  and  in  the 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  41 


dusk  sat  down  at  her  beloved  spinnet  and  laid 
her  long  fingers  on  the  keys. 

There  are  some  who  strive  and  study  at  the 
shrine  of  music,  who  never  can  lay  hold  on  the 
muse’s  soul,  and  there  are  others — untutored 
ones,  sometimes — upon  whom  she  lays  her 
touch  with  magic,  making  them  her  own. 

Such  an  one  was  Doxey  Fairweather.  She 
knew  not  one  note  from  another,  not  even  the 
names  of  her  spinnet’s  keys,  but  she  caressed 
the  instrument  with  love,  and  it  gave  back  to 
her  and  all  who  listened  in  the  dusk,  love  and 
pathos  and  tragedy,  and  all  the  great  emotions 
of  this  little  human  life,  a  pouring  free  gift 
that  throbbed  and  trembled,  crooned  and 
sighed.  And  when  she  held  up  her  shapely 
head  and  opened  her  round  white  throat  it 
was  primal  music  which  flooded  the  tavern  and 
all  the  nearby  forest.  Sometimes  a  passing 
traveler  stopped  to  listen,  and  the  young  men 
playing  in  the  back  room  forgot  their  cards  to 
look  down  the  vistas  of  the  future  where  un¬ 
known  things  awaited. 


t 


42  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Ah,  youth! — youth,  with  its  dreams  and  its 
tendernesses  so  poignant  as  to  be  a  pain! — its 
egotisms,  its  thrills,  its  enchantments! 

As  the  girl  in  the  outer  room  began  her 
nameless  tunes  the  macaronies  commenced 
their  play;  though  that  one  whose  pride  and 
manly  beauty  were  outstanding  in  a  class 
where  those  attributes  were  common,  namely, 
young  Lord  Lester,  from  the  plantation  up¬ 
river,  held  his  cards  so  long  in  his  hand  that  he 
was  sharply  rallied. 

“I  wager,  my  lord,”  said  Jack  Frisbee, 
gaily,  “that  our  Princess  of  the  Spinnet  hath 
woven  a  spell  of  roses  and  wild  honeysuckle  to 
ensnare  the  senses.  Am  I  not  right?  Do 
you  not  think  on  love  this  very  minute?” 

Lord  Lester  smiled,  dropped  his  blue  eyes 
and  nodded  at  the  laugh  that  followed;  and 
presently  all  were  attending  on  their  play. 

John  Fairweather  bustled  about  them  as  be¬ 
fitted  a  good  host,  seeing  that  the  constantly 
emptied  mugs  were  as(  constantly  filled,  as 
Doxey  sang  on  from  her  shadows. 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  43 


Time  in  spring  is  negligible,  yet  priceless. 
It  drifts  away  swift  as  swallows  a-winging, 
yet  every  moment  is  precious  and  beloved. 
So  it  was  on  this  dream-laden  night,  when  the 
low  stars  sat  in  the  palely  dark  sky,  like  queens 
on  their  thrones,  to  behold  the  pageant  of  the 
earth  go  by,  and  a  girl  sang.  The  trees  in  the 
encroaching  forest  sent  out  a  vital,  sweet  smell 
of  growing  and  enduring,  drawn  out  more  pun- 
gently  by  the  light  dew.  A  tiny  sickle  of  new 
moon  was  low  in  the  west,  like  a  silver-gc&ld 
boat  helplessly  adrift  on  a  dusky  sea. 

Presently  a  small  sound  was  borne  amid  the 
shrilling  of  the  katydids, — the  soft  shuffle  of  a 
horse  that  came  from  the  direction  of  the 
deeper  forest,  traveling  at  its  own  slow  gait. 
Its  hoofs,  in  the  soft  dusk,  made  scarce  a  jar¬ 
ring  note  in  the  chorus  of  the  night,  and  the 
man  in  the  saddle  leaned  a  trifle  forward,  as  if 
to  catch,  in  its  delicate  entirety,  the  full  volume 
of  the  music  which  poured  from  the  low  door¬ 
way  of  the  Cock’s  Feather.  When  the  pair 
had  reached  the  beaten  earth  before  the  tavern 


44  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


the  rider  touched  the  horse’s  mane  with  light 
fingers  and  the  animal  stopped.  For  a  long 
time  the  man  sat  silent,  leaning  sidewise  in  his 
saddle,  then  stepped  soundlessly  to  the  open 
door,  where  he  leaned  against  the  lintel  with 
his  arms  folded  on  his  breast.  Doxey  sang 
on.  Sometimes  it  was  a  stirring  love-song  of 
English  soldiery.  Again  it  was  a  wordless 
humming,  and  once  a  tender  lullaby.  At  last 
her  fingers  fell  quiet  on  the  keys,  after  run¬ 
ning  up  and  down  the  board,  and  she  said, 
very  softly: 

“Good  even,  sir — by  the  door.” 

The  man  started,  and  laughed  delightedly, 
in  a  voice  as  soft  as  hers.  He  had  thought 
himself  unobserved  and  meant  to  mount  and 
go  on  his  idle  way  without  disclosing  himself. 
But  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  girl  had  seen  him 
the  first  moment  he  appeared  warily  beside 
the  opening. 

“Mistress,”  he  said  half  whispering,  “what 
can  a  thief  say,  taken  red-handed?  It  was  to 
steal  the  strings  of  bodiless  gems  you  but  now 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  45 


poured  out,  doubtless  for  another,  that  I  did 
stop  in  from  the  turnpike.  I  crave  your  par¬ 
don.” 

“Nay,”  said  Doxey  Fairweather,  rising  and 
coming  to  stand  before  him  in  the  shadows, 
“what  is  music  for,  but  to  delight  others? 
You  are  welcome,  an  it  pleasured  you.” 

The  man  was  silent  a  little  while. 

“I  know  not,”  he  said  at  last,  “of  another 
lass  who,  seemingly  spied  on  from  the  dark,  her 
house  thus  intruded  upon,  would  have  said  so 
kindly  a  thing  as  that.” 

“So?  Are  not  all  maidens  naturally  kind, 
sir?” 

“Marry,  no!  And  they  lack  understand¬ 
ing,  for  the  main — a  priceless  thing  and  scarce 
to  be  looked  for  in  a  woman.” 

“Is  that  so?”  said  Mistress  Doxey,  instantly 
bridling  with  that  spirit  which  ever  belied  her 
gentle  mouth.  “And  who  are  you,  sir,  to  be 
thus  damaging  my  sex?” 

“I?”  The  man  in  the  doorway  laughed  a 
little,  as  if  amused.  “Why — I  am — a  ne’er- 


46  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


do-well,  Mistress;  a  lover  of  the  forests,  kins¬ 
man  to  the  birds  and  the  free  things.  I 
am — ” 

He  did  not  finish  his  words,  for  on  the  instant 
the  inner  door,  being  already  ajar,  swung  open 
to  the  master’s  hand,  and  a  flood  of  candle¬ 
light  poured  out  directly  upon  him.  It 
showed  a  tall  figure  clad  in  worn  buckskins ;  a 
lean  face,  smiling,  its  blue  eyes  a-sparkle  with 
the  small  adventure  of  the  night,  the  song, 
and  the  girl  he  had  found. 

“Patrick  Henry!”  said  Harry  Corton,  who 
sat  facing  the  open  door — “the  gallant  lout!” 

The  stranger  laughed  and  nodded. 

“As  good  a  name  as  any.” 

Several  of  the  young  gentlemen  frowned 
and  fiddled  with  their  cards.  It  was  a  time  of 
peppery  tempers,  when  pride  was  rampant 
and  blood  ranked  high.  They  liked  not  this 
easy-going  chap  who  championed  slave-girls 
from  overseas  and — kissed  the  hand  of  the 
Governor’s  daughter. 

“Come,”  said  Jack  Frisbee,  “my  friends,  the 


AT  COCK  S  FEATHER  INN  47 


game  waits.  ’Tis  tragedy  to  waste  good  play 
and  the  drinking  of  Master  Fairweather’s  ale 
in  staring  at  a  wild  buck  of  the  woods.” 

At  that  needlessly  unkind  speech  Doxey 
turned  upon  the  speaker,  eyes  suddenly  alight 
with  anger. 

“I  am  not  so  high-and-mighty,  sir,”  she  said 
clearly,  “being  only  the  tavern-keeper’s 
daughter,  therefore  privileged  to  be  kind.  If' 
you  will  favor  me,  stranger,  with  sitting  a 
moment  here  in  my  quiet  shadows  I  will  right 
gladly  sing  for  you  ‘The  Rose  and  Thorn.’ 
Are  you  so  minded?” 

Patrick  Henry — for  it  was  indeed  he — 
looked  with  delight  at  the  blank  faces  of  the 
young  men  in  the  lighted  room  beyond. 

He  laid  his  rein  up  his  horse’s  neck,  spoke  a 
low  word  to  the  animal,  and  sank  down  upon 
the  sill,  his  fur  cap  removed  and  held  in  the 
hands  that  fell  quiet  in  his  lap.  His  long 
form  leaned  gracefully  against  the  lintel  and 
his  blue  eyes  went  out  toward  the  forest  that 
he  loved. 


48  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“The  gods  see  fit  to  bless  me,  Mistress,”  he 
said  slowly.  “I  can  think  of  nothing  I  had 
rather  do  than  sit  in  your  doorway  and  hear 
‘The  Rose  and  Thorn.’  ” 

And  while  the  play  in  the  other  room  took 
on  a  certain  impatience,  due  to  the  restless¬ 
ness  of  Lord  Lester  and  Mister  Frisbee, 
whom  the  rebuke  had  cut  right  sharply,  the 
maiden  sat  her  down  to  her  spinnet  keys  again 
and  sang  like  a  nightingale,  while  the  stranger 
in  the  dusky  doorway  listened-  as  one  in  a 
dream. 

It  seemed  to  him,  who  loved  the  open  with 
such  enduring  love,  that  all  the  voices  of  the 
moonlit  night  were  speaking  to  him  softly, 
that  the  very  soul  and  spirit  of  the  trackless 
woods  breathed  in  the  tuneful  twilight. 

When  Doxey  sang  the  ballad  through — 
and  it  comprised  some  seven  lengthy  verses — 
her  voice  falling  gently  at  the  end  like  dew  on 
thistle-down,  the  man  on  the  sill  sighed  for 
very  joy  and  looked  toward  her  in  the  dark. 

“You  have  opened  a  door  and  peeped  into 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  49 


the  secret  chamber  of  my  heart,  Mistress,”  he 
whispered,  “and  light  has  flowed  in  around 
you,  while  muted  music  trembles  in  the  depths 
thereof.  This  night  you  have  made  a  friend. 
If  I  can  ever  serve  you — call — and  I  shall 
come.” 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  tumbled  chair  in 
the  room  beyond,  the  scrape  of  hasty  feet  as 
their  owner  rose. 

“From  the  forest  and  stream,  my  girl,”  said 
Lord  Lester  sharply,  who  had  been  listening, 
his  nerves  a-strain,  “-dirty  and  lazy — a  famil¬ 
iar  of  slaves  and  bondmen,  a  coarse,  illiterate 
commoner!  So  will  he  come!” 

“My  heart!”  cried  Doxey  Fairweather, 
springing  to  her  feet.  “Have  all  you  young 
gentlemen  a  pick  upon  this  stranger?  I  vow 
he  hath  a  prettier  tongue  than  all  of  you  put 
together  and  e’en  a  cleaner  wit!” 

The  tavern-keeper  had  brought  a  light  and 
the  players  crowded  into  the  outer  room. 
Patrick  Henry  had  risen  to  his  tall  height  in 
the  doorway.  The  smile  was  gone  from  his 


50  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


bright  blue  eyes.  A  lambent  flame  burned 
there  instead. 

“My  lord,”  he  said  gravely,  “an  you  will 
fight  I’ll  pin  that  lie  upon  your  lips.  I  am 
fresh  from  the  cold  waters  of  the  river  not  an 
hour  back.  I  have  walked  and  ridden  forty 
miles  today;  and,  as  for  being  coarse,  that’s  as 
God  wills.  Perhaps.  But  I  trow  I  know 
more  of  the  simple  lore  of  the  earth  than  you, 
and  some  little  of  books  as  well.  Will  you 
fight,  my  lord?” 

His  hand  was  at  his  hip,  his  straight  glance 
boring  that  of  the  aristocrat.  But  Lord 
Lester  spat  contemptuously  upon  the  sanded 
floor  and  turned  from  him,  as  behooved  one  of 
his  rank  challenged  by  a  commoner. 

“Sirrah,”  cried  Brithan  Randolph,  “do  you 
know  no  better  than  to  talk  of  duelling  with 
your  betters?  Go  back  to  your  mire  and  mind 
your  manners.” 

Here  young  Mr.  Jefferson  stepped  for¬ 
ward  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  worn  buckskin 
on  the  stranger’s  shoulder. 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  51 


“Patrick,”  he  said  gently,  “don’t  mind  us. 
We’re  all  of  one  pattern  after  all,  some  a  lit¬ 
tle  warped  in  the  making.  When  do  you  and 
I  take  the  trip  up-river  which  we  have  been 
a-planning?” 

At  the  gentle  tone,  the  words  of  grace  and 
dignity,  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  Patrick 
Henry’s  flaming  blue  eyes  softened,  the  slow 
smile  came  at  his  lips’  corners. 

“Whenever  you  are  ready,”  he  said, 

Utter  consternation  was  instantlv  mirrored 
upon  the  faces  round  about,  mouths  fell  open 
in  amazement. 

The  stranger  turned  to  the  girl  and  held  out 
a  hand. 

“I  bid  you  good  night,  Mistress,”  he  said, 
“and — I’ll  hear  again  ‘The  Rose  and  Thorn’ 
many  a  night  beneath  the  stars.” 

Then  he  turned  from  the  room.  There  was 
a  swift  rattle  of  rein  and  bit,  the  sound  of 
hoofs  a-pounding  down  the  turnpike. 

Cold  glances  turned  on  Thomas  Jefferson. 

“I  suppose  you  know,  Tom,”  said  Tim 


52  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Lovelace  gravely,  “that  this  fiddling  fisher¬ 
man  hath  a  bad  odor  in  some  nostrils  that  are 
loyal  to  the  King — that  he  is  already  termed 
Whig  by  gossip?  Though  he  is  of  small  ac¬ 
count,  still,  in  these  days  when  uneasy  rumors 
are  becoming  more  and  more  like  bats  of  ill- 
omen,  each  man  must  bear  sharp  light  on  his 
intentions.” 

Mr.  Jefferson,  a  tall  and  earnest  man,  grave 
for  his  years,  gazed  into  his  friend’s  face. 

“I  know,  Timothy,”  he  said,  still  in  that 
gentle  voice;  “and  I  still  count  him  a  man . 
A  man’s  intentions  are,  and  must  ever  be,  be¬ 
tween  him  and  his  God.  I  cannot  pry  into 
them.” 

“Odsblood!”  said  Tim  Lovelace  wonder- 
ingly.  “Tom,  I  like  not  this  tone!  Know 
you  how  it  must  sound  to  all  loyal  subjects 
of  His  Majesty?” 

Mr.  Jefferson’s  face  was  very  pale. 

“I  know,”  he  said. 

But  the  girl,  standing  a  bit  back  from  the 


AT  COCK’S  FEATHER  INN  53 


earnest  group,  put  a  quick  hand  to  her  pretty 
throat,  and  a  painful  flush  dyed  her  brow. 

“Whig!”  she  gasped  sharply.  “Did  you 
call  him  ‘Whig,’  sir?” 

Timothy  Lovelace  was  already  gathering  up 
his  gloves  and  snuff-box  and  did  not  hear  her. 
The  gay  evening  was  done;  the  play  had  lost 
its  edge.  In  a  strained  silence  the  gentlemen 
made  ready  to  ride  away,  and  more  than  one 
heart  in  the  group  was  heavy;  for  they  were 
all  friends. 

Presently  John  Fairweather  stood  in  the 
darkened  yard  again  and  listened  to  their 
horses’  hoof-beats  growing  faint  in  the  dis¬ 
tance,  while  the  girl  drew  the  cover  over  her 
spinnet’s  keys;  and  all  the  sparkle  was  gone 
from  her  eyes. 


V 


SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 


CHAPTER  III 

SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 

AT  the  house  of  Governor  Dunmore  there 
was  a  stir  and  bustle.  Lights  shone  from  all 
the  windows  in  the  walls,  built  of  sturdy  logs, 
and  made  for  the  grim  business  of  defense  if 
need  be;  and  there  was  the  sound  of  instru¬ 
ments  a-tuning,  for  the  youth  and  beauty  of 
Jamestown  danced,  not  to  mention  those  of 
more  mature  years. 

Mistress  Penelope  celebrated  her  birthday, 
at  the  ripe  age  of  twenty-one.  Guests  were 
come  from  everywhere,  in  coaches  from  the 
outlying  plantations,  in  bateaux  and  barges 
from  up-river,  and  in  some  instances  in  chairs 
that  had  once  swayed  through  the  streets  of 
London  Town. 

Dowagers  in  stomachers  and  gems,  in  stiff 

57 


58  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


brocades,  with  patches  on  wrinkled  cheeks, 
simpered  at  elderly  beaux  in  powdered  queues, 
while  those  blessed  of  the  gods  with  youth 
sparkled  in  their  own  right  of  pearly  teeth  and 
clear  eyes,  a  wealthy  galaxy. 

Of  these  indeed  was  Mistress  Penelope,  her 
brown  hair  unpowdered,  her  hazel  eyes  a-shine 
like  harbor  lights,  her  bosom  white  as  the 
waxen  buds  of  the  native  magnolia.  She 
passed  among  the  throng  laughing,  kindly, 
beautiful,  and  the  gallants  sighed  dolorously 
in  her  wake.  It  was  the  fashion  to  take  seri¬ 
ously  the  pains  of  love,  and  more  than  one 
gay  blade  fancied  himself  the  hopeless  slave  of 
this  sweet  and  gracious  girl. 

Of  this  happily  unhappy  train  were  Tim 
Lovelace  and  Brithan  Randolph.  Charles 
wrote  sonnets  to  Penelope’s  bosom  friend, 
the  pretty,  petite  and  imperious  Euphenie  La 
Porte — as  French  as  her  name — the  most 
heartless  flirt  in  Jamestown,  and,  it  was  ru¬ 
mored,  in  all  Virginia  itself. 

Harry  C  orton  was  bound  hard  and  fast,  in 


SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 


59 


real  bonds  of  honest  affection,  to  lovely  Sheila 
Lovelace,  Timothy’s  only  sister. 

Both  of  these  maids  were  there,  in  silk  and 
lace,  in  patch  and  powder,  their  black  and 
golden  curls  hanging  on  their  fair  shoulders; 
and  the  Governor  himself  must  pinch  each 
pretty  cheek  and  tell  them  some  sweet  compli¬ 
ment. 

They  trod  the  stately  measures  of  the  dance, 
and  Cupid  flew  among  them  all,  busy  as  a  bee 
in  clover. 

Behind  a  bower  of  wild  jasmine,  hung  to 
the  rafters  and  draping  its  sweet  length  like 
a  curtain  to  hide  chairs  and  a  rustic  seat, 
Penelope  and  Euphenie,  about  midway  the 
festivity,  cooled  their  flushed  young  cheeks  a 
delicious  moment  a-f arming. 

“La!  Penelope,”  whispered  Euphenie, 
“would  I  could  snare  the  beaux  like  you! 
There  is  Tim  a-mooning  like  a  sick  calf,  and 
Brithan  bites  his  nails  and  scowls  when  you 
dance  with  the  young  stranger  from  overseas. 
Has  he  spoken  yet  of  love?” 


60  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“Who?  Brithan?”  asked  Penelope,  her 
laughter  breaking  in  her  whisper.  “He  does 
little  else!” 

“No!  No!”  impatiently,  “I  mean  the 
stranger — the  big  blond  Hessian  from  His 
Majesty’s  court  in  London.” 

“Goodness,  no!”  said  Penelope.  “Euphe- 
nie,  do  you  measure  all  acquaintances  in  terms 
of  love?  It  is  a  slow  process,  and  one  built  on 
faith  and  admiration  and — and  trust.” 

For  a  moment  the  speaker’s  hazel  eyes  were 
dreamy. 

i 

“Marry!”  swore  the  little  French  maid 
hastily.  “I  meant  not  to  stir  up  a  sermon, 
dearest.  Let  us  go  back.  My  feet  are  itch¬ 
ing  for  a  measure  with  the  stranger,  I  avow.” 

As  the  two  girls  parted  the  hanging  lace 
of  jasmine  they  came  face  to  face  with  two 
young  gentlemen  of  vital  presence.  One  of 
these  was  the  grave  and  serious  Mr.  Jefferson, 
and  he  was  in  earnest  converse  with  his  com¬ 
panion,  which  broke  off  abruptly  as  he  made 
his  bow  to  beauty. 


SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 


61 


He  kissed  both  fair  hands  impartially, 
though  Penelope’s  came  first  by  reason  of  her 
rank  and  birthday  celebration,  and  made  a 
pretty  speech  to  each. 

Both  pairs  of  sweet  eyes  went  admiringly 
to  the  big-boned  and  clean-cut  face  of  the 
other  man,  however,  with  unflattering  swift¬ 
ness,  and  each  graceful  courtesy  dropped  a 
trifle  deeper. 

“Mr.  Washington,”  said  Penelope,  smiling, 
“I  had  despaired  of  your  presence,  since  it  was 
current  in  the  town  that  you  were  off  on  some 
mysterious  business  among  the  plantations, 
and  I  feared  you  did  not  receive  my  bid.” 

“It  was  delivered  as  late  as  yestereve,  Mis¬ 
tress,  and  I  was  many  long  miles  away,  but 
what  could  keep  a  man — and  a  young  one — 
from  your  birthday  rout?  Neither  miles  nor 
mud  nor  sleepless  hours  in  the  saddle.  I 
came,  as  you  see.  Am  I  to  have  an  early 
dance  as  reward?” 

“Two  of  them,  sir,  an  I  can  find  another  va¬ 
cant,”  said  Penelope.  “And  you  shall  tell  me 


62  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

of  the  pulse  of  the  plantations,  and  what  are 
these  ugly  whispers  of  disloyalty.” 

The  strong  face  of  Mr.  Washington  turned 
grave  at  that  and  he  passed  a  hand  over  his 
broad  brow  and  back  along  his  simply  dressed 
hair. 

“Nay,”  he  said  gently,  “let  us  talk  only  of 
sweet  things  this  night,  dear  lady.  It  is  too 
bright  and  gay  an  hour  to  burden  with  idle 
speech.” 

And  offering  his  arm  with  a  splendid  grace, 
of  which  he  was  past  master,  he  led  Penelope 
out  among  the  throng. 

It  was  not  long  until  Euphenie  had  her  wish, 
for  the  big  blond  man  from  overseas  threaded 
the  maze,  like  the  needle  to  the  pole,  in  the 
wake  of  Lord  Lester,  and  bowed  before  her, 
as  all  must  do  sooner  or  later. 

Lord  Lester,  who  looked  with  calm  eyes  on 
all  feminine  beauty  since  he  had  taken  to  fre¬ 
quenting  a  certain  inn  on  the  Jamestown  pike, 
gave  him  to  her  by  name  as  Herr  Heine  von 


SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 


63 


Kneibling,  and  the  girl  looked  up  with  her 
black  eyes,  innocent  under  their  long  lashes  as 
a  new-born  babe’s.  So  did  she  look  at  each 
new  blade — with  the  same  fatal  result  in  al¬ 
most  every  instance. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  an  infinitesimal,  flut¬ 
tering  thing  that  lay  like  a  rose-leaf  in  his  huge 
one,  and  went  bowing  and  swaying  away,  the 
lightest  creature  on  her  pretty  feet  that  graced 
the  floor  that  night. 

Later  she  lightly  and  artfully  directed  him 
to  where  Penelope  again  spoke  with  Mr. 
Washington,  and  presented  him  to  the  latter, 
though  she  made  it  sweetly  plain  that  she  pre¬ 
sented  Mr.  Washington  to  him — of  so  subtle 
an  art  of  conquest  was  this  small  Euphenie! 

At  his  name  upon  her  lips  the  man  of  the 
Colonies  drew  himself  a  trifle  more  erect,  it 
seemed,  and  the  bow  he  made  the  stranger  was 
a  baffling  thing,  so  punctilious  was  it,  so  stiff 
with  ceremony,  yet  so  surely  was  it  tinged 
with  vague  displeasure. 


64  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


The  two  girls  exchanged  a  glance  and  the 
newcomers  drifted  away,  leaving  Penelope 
and  her  companion  in  momentary  silence. 

“Mr.  Washington,”  said  Penelope  timidly, 
“what  was  it?  I  saw  but  now  a — a  shadow  on 
your  face.” 

The  man  smiled  and  looked  away  from  her 
a  moment,  but  there  was  a  stern  line  about  his 
mobile  lips. 

“If  it  was  there,  Mistress,”  he  said  gently, 
“I  beg  a  thousand  pardons — and  we  will  chase 
it  away  with  another  measure.  Come.” 

“George,”  said  Mr.  Jefferson  an  hour  later, 
“what  think  you  of  this  emissary  from  the 
Hessian  king — our  masquerading  George  the 
Third?  I  like  not  his  looks.  He  is  so  bland, 
so  cock-sure,  so  altogether  on  the  top-rail,  as 
it  were,  of  royal  favor.” 

“I  think,  Tom,”  said  Mr.  Washington, 
“that  the  dark  cloud  gathers  and  that  we 
gather  beneath  it  to  rip  out  its  silver  lining.” 

With  which  guarded  speech  the  two  friends 


SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 


65 


clasped  hands  and  turned  to  drink  a  final  glass 
at  Mistress  Penelope’s  birthday  rout,  to  bow 
before  the  Governor,  a  staunch  and  loyal 
Tory,  and  to  go  out  together  under  the  keen 
spring  stars. 

But  they  had  voiced  for  the  first  time  a 
blind  and  vital  urge  that  was  beginning  to  stir 
sluggishly  in  many  a  Colonial  vein. 

Long  that  night — or  rather  that  spring 
morning,  when  the  still  darkness  of  forest  and 
glade  dripped  with  the  dew — did  the  three 
girls,  Penelope,  Euphenie  and  Sheila,  sit  hud¬ 
dled  together  in  Penelope’s  deep  four-poster 
bed  and  whisper  of  conquest  and  lover’s  sigh 
and  subtle  speech. 

“And  oh,  my  heart!”  said  Euphenie  raptur¬ 
ously,  “but  his  arms  are  strong,  this  Herr  von 
Kneibling!  He  did  lift  me  clear  of  the  floor 
on  two  occasions  in  the  round  dance,  and  it 
was  as  if  a  wind  blew  me !  N o  effort — none  in 
the  least.” 

“But,  Euphenie,”  said  Sheila,  with  a  sparkle 


66  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


in  her  blue  eyes  and  the  shadow  of  a  brogue 
on  her  sweet  lips,  “did  you  think  it  maidenly 
to  dance  with  him  again  after  such  a  liberty?” 

Euphenie  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed. 

“V oila!  mon  enfant”  she  said,  “  ’twas  then 
that  I  longed  for  his  arms  unspeakably!” 

But  Penelope,  covering  her  rosy  mouth 
with  her  hand,  yawned  frankly  and  smiled  at 
her  friends’  chatter. 

“You  do  nothing,  my  dears,”  she  said  sleep¬ 
ily,  “but  plan  the  conquest  of  the  macaronies. 
And  I  fancy,  Phenie,  that  in  this  new  gallant 
you’ll  have  more  than  you  bargain  for.  He 
is  a  Hessian  to  his  boot-heels,  and  I  like  not 
the  type.  But  it  was  a  pretty  party — and 
heigh-ho ! — I  am  growing  old  prodigious 
fast!” 

She  reached  and  drew  the  bell  rope,  and 
upon  the  instant  there  appeared  with  comb 
and  brush,  and  towel  on  arm,  the  blue-eyed 
lass  from  Lancashire,  to  attend  her  mistress’ 
brown  hair,  to  apply  beauty  lotions,  to  stroke 
the  white  hands,  and  to  do  all  with  the  passion- 


SHADOWS  OF  CLOUDS 


67 


ate  adoration  which  her  eyes  had  promised 
that  day  when  Mistress  Penelope  had  tried  so 
hard  to  bid  her  from  the  auction  block. 

All  through  the  rout  she  had  sat  in  the  tir¬ 
ing-room  adjoining  waiting  for  this  moment 
of  service — tireless,  sleepless,  eager. 

Soon  all  were  made  ready  for  slumber,  the 
little  feet  free  of  the  satin  slippers,  the  gay 
gowns  hung  on  the  walls,  and  when  the  three 
slim  forms  were  snuggled  safe  in  Penelope’s 
big  bed,  she  snuffed  the  candles,  drew  the  cur¬ 
tains  where  the  dawn  was  peeping,  and  softly 
withdrew  to  see  that  none  disturbed  the  sleep¬ 
ers  for  at  least  nine  long  hours. 

As  her  gentle  hand  drew  shut  the  ponder¬ 
ous  door  Penelope’s  drowsy  voice  called: 

“Patience  Conwell!” 

“Yes,  Mistress.” 

“I  love  you — for — your — kindness.” 

And  Mistress  Penelope  was  sound  asleep, 
but  her  serving-maid  closed  the  door  ever  so 
softly,  and  there  wras  a  smile  upon  her  lips. 


HE  OF  THE  SILVER  TONGUE 


CHAPTER  IV 


HE  OF  THE  SILVER  TONGUE 

PATRICK  HENRY  came  back  to  the 
Cock’s  Feather  Inn.  He  came  in  broad  day¬ 
light,  cantering  easily  on  his  friend  the  good 
roan  horse,  with  a  flower  in  the  turned-up  flap 
of  his  shabby  cap  and  a  bundle  underneath  his 
arm.  He  dismounted  in  the  beaten  yard  and, 
leaning  in  at  the  door,  smiled  at  those  he  saw 
there.  For  on  this  occasion  none  had  come 
out  to  meet  the  prospective  guest.  John 
Fairweather  smoked  his  long-stemmed  pipe, 
regarding  him  with  unfriendly  eyes. 

Doxey,  dusting  the  well-worn  counter 
where  her  father  took  his  toll  for  ale  and  food 
and  lodging,  glanced  at  him  sidewise  under 
the  bands  of  her  dark  hair. 

4 'Give  you  good  morning,  host,”  said 

Henry;  “  ’tis  a  marvelous  day.” 

71 


72  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“A  good  morning — a  good  morning,”  re¬ 
turned  Fairweather.  But  there  was  that 
in  the  tones  of  his  voice  which  said  it  was  not 
so  good  a  morning  as  he  could  have  wished. 

The  man  in  the  doorway  pricked  up  his  ears, 
as  it  were. 

His  bright  blue  eyes,  rather  small,  but  deep 
and  sparkling,  sharp  as  gimlets,  turned  to  the 
lovely  face  of  the  girl. 

“And  you,  Mistress;”  he  said,  “find  you  the 
day  to  your  liking?” 

Now  Doxey  was  sweet  and  kind,  but  she 
was  a  “King’s  man”  to  her  boot-heels,  and 
there  had  stirred  in  her  a  faint  resentment  at 
her  own  championing  of  this  stranger,  ever 
since  the  night  when  the  young  gentlemen 
played  in  the  tap-room.  Therefore  she  pushed 
back  a  strand  of  hair  that  fluffed  at  her  pink 
ear  and  flecked  her  cloth  of  best  flax-linen 
with  a  nonchalant  air. 

“It  was,”  she  said,  “a  moment  hence.” 

Patrick  Henry  drew  his  tall  form  up  along 
the  lintel  and  looked  at  her;  and  all  the  riot- 


HE  OF  THE  SILVER  TONGUE  73 


ous  devils  of  levity  had  come  back  into  his 
glance. 

“So?  And  one  stranger,  passing,  and  re¬ 
membering  ‘The  Rose  and  Thorn’  and  her  who 
sang  it,  has,  by  stopping  for  a  civil  greeting, 
changed  its  face?” 

Doxey  did  not  answer,  but  continued  with 
her  dusting. 

The  tavern-keeper,  being  a  man  who  fol¬ 
lowed  the  line  of  least  resistance,  bustled  out 
to  attend  to  some  vague  duty  in  the  nether  re¬ 
gions  of  his  hostelry,  leaving  the  girl  to  handle 
this  somewhat  unwelcome  guest. 

Her  keen  tongue  and  her  wit  were  known 
afar. 

“And  you  will  not  even  speak  to  me,  to¬ 
day!”  went  on  the  man,  with  a  wistful  note  in 
the  cadence  of  his  voice. 

Somehow  that  little  note  seemed  to  stand 
out  of  the  tones  of  that  voice  like  a  spot  of 
color  on  a  grey  background.  It  pinged  on  a 
string  in  Doxey’s  heart  and  made  her  see  again 
this  same  room  in  shadow,  the  faint  whiteness 


74  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


of  her  spinnet’s  keys,  the  circle  of  light  be¬ 
yond  the  inner  door  where  the  young  men 
pla}Ted. 

Her  lips  drooped  unconsciously,  so  subtly 
moving  was  that  pleading  note. 

“An  you  will  pardon  me,”  she  said,  “I  will 
acknowledge  my  lack  of  courtesy — but  I  have 
reason.” 

“Yes?”  said  Henry.  “And  if  I  might 
make  so  bold,  since  this  reason  seems  to  affect 
me  most  vitally,  will  you  tell  me  it,  Mistress?” 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head.  Her  face  was 
very  grave. 

“I  had  rather  not,”  she  said. 

The  man  stood  for  a  long  time  without  mo¬ 
tion,  studying  her. 

“I  thought,”  he  said  at  last,  slowly,  “that 
I  had  found  one  woman  who  was  not  like  all 
the  rest,  who  was  kind  to  her  heart’s  core,  who 
had  that  most  priceless  thing  so  rare  in  her 
sex,  namely,  understanding.  I  believed  I  had 
found — a  marvel.” 

A  deep,  painful  flush  rose  under  the  maid’s 


HE  OF  THE  SILVER  TONGUE  75 


fair  skin,  dyeing  her  from  where  her  snowy 
kerchief  crossed  on  her  bosom  to  the  soft  hol¬ 
lows  of  her  temples.  Her  dark  eyes  dropped 
in  real  shame  and  her  fingers  fiddled  with  the 
dustcloth.  The  mobile  lips,  however,  set 
themselves  in  a  fine  of  stubborn  pride. 

She  looked  up  again  presently  and  the 
shame  was  burned  away  in  the  spirit  roused  in 
her  by  his  words. 

“And  now,  sir?”  she  said. 

Patrick  Henry  bowed  by  the  lintel. 

“I  still  believe,”  he  replied. 

He  laid  his  bundle,  a  neat  package  wrapped 
in  the  cool  broad  leaves  of  the  mulberry  and 
tied  with  withes  of  some  long  pale  grass,  upon 
a  bench  by  the  door,  turned  to  his  horse 
nosing  at  his  elbow,  mounted  and  rode  away 
without  a  backward  look. 

For  a  long  still  moment  Doxey  watched 
him,  noting  the  grace  of  his  lean  figure,  the 
straightness  of  back,  the  upright  carriage,  the 
ease  with  which  he  swung  to  every  motion  of 
the  horse. 


76  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

When  he  was  hid  in  the  depth  of  the  forest 
that  edged  so  close  to  the  turnpike,  she  sighed 
and  picked  up  the  bundle  he  had  left. 

Out  of  its  cool  heart  she  took  three  as  beau¬ 
tiful  specimens  of  the  finny  tribe  as  one  might 
look  upon  in  a  long  day’s  journey,  their  rain¬ 
bow  colors  shining  through  their  silver  armor, 
cold  and  fresh  as  when  they  came  flashing 
from  their  native  element — fitting  tribute  from 
one  who  styled  himself  a  “lover  of  the  for¬ 
ests,  a  ne’er-do-well,  a  kinsman  of  the  free 
things.” 

“Fish!”  cried  Doxey  Fairweather.  “Fish 
to  the  fair,  instead  of  nosegays!  A  lout  in 
truth!” 

And  she  gave  them  to  the  serving  man  who 
came  that  moment  from  the  inn’s  corner. 

“And  yet — ”  she  thought  perplexedly,  re¬ 
membering  that  wistful  note  in  the  man’s 
voice,  like  a  spot  of  color  on  a  dull  web. 


A  RISING  SUN 


f 


CHAPTER  V 


A  KISING  SUN 

PATRICK  HENRY  had  long  thoughts 
to  occupy  his  mind  these  days.  F or  that  mat¬ 
ter  so  had  every  heart  in  the  Colonies, — and 
there  were  divers  ways  of  thinking, — but  the 
young  man  who  so  idly  rode  the  by-ways  was 
scrutinising  from  all  angles  and  with  delighted 
eyes  the  weighty  matter  of  love. 

This  was  absorbing  business. 

It  did  away,  for  a  time,  with  his  addiction  to 
the  dog-eared  books  on  law  which  he  carried 
in  his  sagging  pockets. 

When  a  serious  intention  assailed  him,  as 
it  did  often  with  a  twinge  of  conscience,  he 
would  settle  himself  in  some  green  glade  where 
the  birds  twittered  and  he  could  hear  the  voice 
of  water,  and  resolutelv  bend  his  eves  to  the 
printed  page  .  .  .  only  to  have  the  dull  thing 

79 


80  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


fade  into  a  background  for  the  flashing  bril¬ 
liance  of  a  woman’s  scornful  face. 

So  did  the  player  of  the  spinnet  hold  him 
as  in  a  snare! 

So  helplessly  did  he  follow  after  her  in 
spirit ! 

But  that  good  sense  which  ever  was  behind 
his  raillery  told  him  at  length  that  this  would 
never  do,  so  he  took  to  relegating  the  pleasant 
dreams  to  the  inner  depths  of  his  conscious¬ 
ness  where  they  might  lie  waiting  his  volun¬ 
tary  call,  and  read  his  Coke  upon  Littleton 
and  the  Virginia  Laws.  And  he  had  his 
Livy, — that  great  feeding  ground  for  the 
hungry  soul  wherein  a  man  might  vision  the 
peaks  of  human  grandeur,  drink  at  the  foun¬ 
tains  of  nobility. 

All  these  filled  the  long  days  to  overflow¬ 
ing. 

And  as  Patrick  Henry  read  and  idled  there 
a  question  began  to  shape  itself  in  his  mind, 
and  awake  the  idler  into  action;  it  was  to  do 
away  forever  with  that  certain  word  which 


A  RISING  SUN 


81 


young  Corton  had  flung  at  him  on  John  Fair- 
weather’s  sill, — namely*  the  question  of  the 
clergy. 

That  excellent  gentry  were  becoming  vastly 
disgruntled  over  the  famous  Tobacco  Act. 
A  wordy  war  of  pamphlets  had  first  set  the 
Colonies  laughing  and  later  stirred  up  suffi¬ 
cient  interest  to  rob  itself  of  ridicule. 

At  that  time  in  Virginia  the  trade  of  sav¬ 
ing  souls  was  worth  sixteen  thousand  pounds 
of  tobacco  by  the  year,  and  every  one  was 
satisfied. 

But — a  shortness  of  crop  had  occasioned  a 
change  in  payment. 

An  Act  was  passed  which  stipulated  that 
“all  persons  from  whom  tobacco  was  due,  were 
authorized  to  pay  the  same  either  in  tobacco 
or  in  money,  after  the  rate  of  sixteen  shillings 
and  eight  pence  per  hundred,  at  the  option  of 
the  debtor.” 

Sixteen  shillings  eight  pence, — when  the 
precious  weed  rose  like  a  rocket  to  fifty  shil¬ 
lings  ! 


82  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


They  who  had  been  satisfied  before  with 
their  stipend  were  now  indignant,  holding 
themselves  to  have  been  abused,  and  the  flood 
of  protest  and  recrimination  which  rolled  over 
the  land  was  full  and  bitter. 

Sheriffs,  clerks,  attorneys, — all  who  were  to¬ 
bacco-creditors, — were  caught  in  the  King’s 
net,  but  it  remained  for  the  clergy,  who  were 
ever  of  a  quick  wit,  to  rise  in  revolt. 

And  this  they  did  with  vigor. 

They  did  so  press  home  upon  the  public 
mind  the  justice  of  their  plea  that  it  seemed 
for  a  time  as  if  they  had  all  the  best  of  the 
argument,  and  Mr.  Lewis,  who  had  defended 
to  the  best  of  his  abilities  the  cause  of  the  de¬ 
fendants  in  the  test  case  brought  by  the  Rev. 
Maury  in  Hanover  County,  and  which  had 
ended  in  a  sustained  demurrer,  gave  up  the 
cause,  acknowledging  defeat. 

And  so  it  came  that,  on  a  certain  day  when 
Patrick  Henry  rode  his  idle  ways  upon  the 
turnpike  he  came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Fran¬ 
cis  Lee  and  Colonel  Danby,  both  of  whom 


A  RISING  SUN 


83 


were  growers  of  tobacco.  They  were  deep  in 
worried  discussion  and  it  was  but  natural  that, 
as  the  three  stopped  to  exchange  greetings, 
the  topic  on  every  tongue  should  continue  to 
hold  their  attention. 

“I  tell  you,  sir,”  said  Colonel  Danby  wav¬ 
ing  his  crop  while  his  red  face  grew  a  shade 
darker,  “why  should  we,  who  labor  for  our 
livelihood,  be  forced  to  share  our  increased 
profits  with  those  who,  being  satisfied  once, 
have  not  done  an  extra  ounce  of  work  to  earn 
their  stipend?  I  ask  you,  why?” 

The  young  man  thus  appealed  to  smiled 
dryly. 

“Perchance,  sir,”  he  said,  “St.  Peter  at  the 
Gate  hath  advanced  the  entrance  fee  of  prayer 
and  penance.” 

“Gently,  Mr.  Henry,”  Mr.  Lee  reproved, 
“levity  is  a  boomerang,  sometimes.” 

But  the  red-faced  Colonel  laughed. 

“Mr.  Lewis  hath  quit  the  job,  and  where 
we  are  to  turn  for  an  abler  tongue  is  beyond 
me.  It  savors  badly  for  our  cause.” 


84  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Here  Patrick  Henry,  idly  fingering  the 
wisps  of  Roanie’s  mane,  pricked  up  his  ears. 
He  glanced  from  one  anxious  face  to  the 
other.  And  then  he  smiled  again,  the  slow 
twinkling  of  gimlet-eyes  making  his  lean  face 
handsome. 

“ Gentlemen/’  he  said  audaciously,  “what 
will  you  give  me  an  I  win  this  suit  for  you?” 

The  blank  astonishment  in  both  pairs  of 
eyes  was  most  unflattering. 

“You?”  said  both  gentlemen  together. 
Then  Mr.  Lee  nodded. 

“I  do  recall  that  somehow  you  wheedled  the 
general  court  into  giving  you  a  license — that 
was  some  time  ago.  And  what  have  vou  done 
with  it?” 

“Kept  it,”  said  Patrick,  “I  like  to  look  at 
it.” 

“’Odsblood!”  swore  the  Colonel,  “you’re 
right !  He  is  a  licensed  barrister !  But  when 
the  ablest  man  in  the  Colonies,  meaning  Mr. 
John  Lewis,  hauls  down  his  flag,- — what 
chance  would  there  be  for — ”  “such  as  you,” 


A  RISING  SUN 


85 


he  was  about  to  say  but  thought  better  of  it. 
The  point  did  not  get  by  his  hearer. 

The  man  on  the  roan  horse  became  sud¬ 
denly  tightlipped. 

“Nevertheless,”  he  said,  “I  could  win  that 
case  for  you.” 

Both  gentlemen  looked  at  him  with  specula¬ 
tive  eyes,  and  presently  Colonel  Danby  said 
naively,  “We  have  at  least  nothing  to  lose, 
having  already  lost.” 

But  Mr.  Lee  was  thinking  more  deeply. 

“Mr.  Henry,”  he  said  gravely,  “tell  us  of 
this  matter  of  the  license.  How  did  you  man¬ 
age, — your  pardon,  sir, — to  get  it  from  the 
general  court?  You  lack  the  education  which 
I  have  always  believed  to  be  requisite.” 

The  man  in  buckskins  laughed  softly,  wav¬ 
ing  a  grandiloquent  hand  at  the  universe. 

“Well,  sir,”  he  said,  “first  I  went  to  Tom 
Jefferson  and  told  him  I  wanted  to  be  ad¬ 
mitted  to  the  bar.  ‘You’re  graduated  now,’ 
says  he.  ‘I’ve  been  studying  for  six  weeks,’ 
I  said.  It  took  him  some  time  to  get  it 


86  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


through  his  head  that  it  was  not  a  joke,  and 
then  he  accompanied  me  to  Mr.  Peyton,  one 
of  the  examiners.  And  then  he  ran  away  and 
left  me — to  face  the  music  alone.” 

“Yes?”  prompted  his  hearer,  “and  what 
did  Mr.  Peyton  say?” 

Again  Patrick  smiled  at  the  memory. 

“He  recalled  my  indolent  youth,  for  he  well 
knew  my  father  and  all  my  folk,  and  told  me 
all  my  shortcomings ;  spoke  of  my  fiddling  and 
fishing,  my  good-for-nothingness.  I  think  he 
was  right  in  that,  sir,  for  I  seem  to  have 
failed  in  all  I’ve  undertaken  so  far.  There 
was  the  store,  you  know,  that  my  father  put 
me  in  along  with  my  brother  William.  The 
dull  shelves — the  counters — I  could  not 
abide  them.  And  the  senseless  figures. 
Why,  sir,  how  could  one  stick  to  them  when 
the  sky-blue  waters  called,  when  the  fish  lay 
darkling  in  every  pool  where  the  trees  leaned 
and  where  the  sunlight  speckled  every  glade 
in  the  forest?  A  dead  man  might — but  not 
I!” 


A  RISING  SUN 


87 


Mr.  Lee  moved  his  hands  upon  his  saddle 
horn,  and  drew  in  a  deep  breath.  Instantly 
he  seemed  to  look  abroad  across  the  land,  to 
feel  the  winds  of  summer, — of  such  power  had 
been  the  few  words  and  the  voice  that  uttered 
them.  But  Patrick  Henry  had  come  down 
to  the  commonplace  again. 

“I  went  before  the  rest  of  the  examiners,” 
he  continued,  “and  they  asked  me  many  ques¬ 
tions,  all  of  which  by  the  grace  of  God  I  was 
able  to  answer.  One  of  them,  however,  swept 
a  hand  at  the  awesome  shelves  of  books  and 
informed  me,  ‘What  you  do  not  know  of  law 
is  there,  sir.’  But  they  gave  me  my  license,” 
he  finished  pensively. 

“Out  of  hand?”  queried  the  Colonel  in 
amaze. 

“Not  exactly,”  said  Patrick,  “Mr.  Ran¬ 
dolph  grilled  me  hard  but  finally  told  me  that 
I  defended  my  opinions  well,  and  that  if  my 
industry  were  hut  half  equal  to  my  genius  I 
would  do  well  and  be  an  ornament  to  my  pro¬ 
fession.  He  also  told  me,”  concluded  the 


88  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


speaker,  his  blue  eyes  sparkling  humorously, 
“that  he  would  never  trust  to  appearances 
again.” 

“Mr.  Henry,”  said  Mr.  Lee  abruptly,  “will 
you  ride  with  us  to  our  destination?  There 
seems  something  to  this  matter  which  war¬ 
rants  a  closer  look.” 

And  Patrick  Henry,  the  ne’er-do-well, 
reined  his  horse  about  face  to  go  back  along 
the  turnpike  with  two  of  the  Colonies’  most 
responsible  personages.  Of  such  small  things 
are  the  dies  of  fate  made. 

Shortly  after  this  conversation  on  the  au¬ 
tumn  road  there  began  to  be  circulated  strange 
rumors  which  gave  rise  to  merriment  and 
much  astonished  comment. 

“What!”  cried  Timothy  Lovelace  to  the 
elder  Mr.  Corton,  “Can  this  be  other  than  a 
jest,  sir?  In  the  first  place,  was  not  the  mat¬ 
ter  of  the  clergy  settled  at  last  session?” 

“It  was,”  returned  the  elder  man;  “but  it 


A  RISING  SUN 


89 


seems  that,  after  all,  and  the  time  nearly  spent 
for  such  action,  the  planters  have  decided  to 
appeal.” 

“And  for  counsel  they  present  Patrick 
Henry!  ’Odsblood!  A  royal  jest,  upon  my 
soul!” 

“And  the  fledgling  lawyer  hath  served  his 
notice  of  appeal  in  approved  fashion.  It  bids 
fair  to  prove  a  matter  of  some  amusement, — 
though  I  fear  somewhat  for  our  friends  from 
the  plantations.” 

“Mistress  Pen,”  said  Harry  Corton  to  that 
much-beloved  young  person  a  few  days  later, 
“your  fighting  fiddler  has  turned  to  the  law. 
Perchance  he  will  as  soundly  trounce  the 
judge  and  jury  as  he  did  our  friend  the  slave- 
buyer.  Shall  you  look  on,  this  time  as  well?” 

The  girl’s  hazel  eyes  lighted  with  a  smile. 

“Without  a  doubt,”  she  answered,  “we  have 
little  enough  of  excitement.  And  I  wager 
there  will  be  something  of  gallantry  in  the 
sight  if  our  backwoodsman  beards  the  brains  of 


90  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


the  triumphant  clergy  in  a  mass.  I’ll  lay  you 
a  crown  on  his  success.” 

Corton  sighed  dolorously. 

“I’d  lose  ten  crowns,”  he  said,  “an  I  might 
win  such  championing  from  you.” 

“Fie,  Harry!  And  don’t  I  know  right 
well  that  in  the  winning  you  would  turn  away, 
forgetting  all  about  me,  did  Sheila  Lovelace 
appear  in  the  offing?  One  flutter  from  the 
lace-end  of  her  kerchief  and  the  world  might 
slide.” 

“Well,”  said  the  young  man  ingenuously, 
“were  it  not  for  Sheila,  Pen,  I’d  fight  every 
blade  in  Virginia  for  you.  Art  satisfied  now? 
How  doth  my  gallantry  compare  with  that  of 
the  fiddler?” 

“For  words,  right  bravely,  Mr.  Corton. 
For  acts, — I  had  rather  not  say,  recalling  the 
day  at  the  auction.” 

But  though  the  affair  of  the  appeal  brought 
forth  a  buzz  of  laughing  raillery,  none  of  it 
was  spilled  on  the  object  of  mirth  himself. 
Patrick  Henry  betook  himself  to  his  wilder- 


A  RISING  SUN  91 

ness  and  none  saw  him  in  the  interim  between 
the  serving  of  his  notice  and  the  day  of  the 
trial. 

Wagers  were  laid  that  he  would  not  appear 
and  there  were  few  takers;  though  Penelope 
Dunmore  laid  five  crowns  upon  him  in  vari¬ 
ous  ways — that,  not  only  would  he  appear,  but 
that  he  would  win  his  case,  and  that  they  who 
watched  and  listened  would  be  repaid. 

“How  now,  Pen,”  said  her  father  geniaUy, 
“why  so  staunch  for  this  wastrel  from  the 
woods?  What  base  you  this  partisanship 
upon?” 

“His  face,  sir,”  said  the  girl,  “its  sim 
and  honesty,  the  straight  courage  and  the  fire 
of  spirit  in  his  eyes.” 

On  the  day  of  the  trial  the  streets  were 
crowded  with  equipages,  for  the  people  from 
surrounding  counties,  stirred  by  the  point  at 
issue,  since  it  so  nearly  concerned  them  all, 
had  come  in  to  attend.  Powder  and  patch 
were  there,  brocade  and  silk,  fanning  their 


92  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


rosy  cheeks,  while  gallants  in  gay  coats  took 
snuff  and  gossiped.  The  planters  were  there, 
talking  heatedly  in  groups,  and  the  clergy  in 
smiling  cohorts  looked  on  with  that  nice  de¬ 
gree  of  patronage  which  portends  ultimate 
triumph. 

Already  they  saw  the  glow  of  victory  and 
were  benignly  genial. 

Also  there  were  idlers  present — people  of 
small  account  who  knew  Patrick  Henry  and 
meant  to  add  their  jeers  to  those  of  his  op- 
posers.  For  where  is  there  one  risen  above 
his  supposed  rank  who  is  not  hounded,  some¬ 
times  even  unto  death,  by  some  upstart  of  the 
rank? 

Henry  a  barrister?  Fie!  It  was  a  matter 
for  laughter  and  that  greatest  of  jests — the 
ridiculing  of  Aspiration  reaching  blindly  up¬ 
ward! 

They  were  primed  for  a  joke  and  meant  to 
have  it,  this  lower  class  who  crowded  on  the 
outskirts  of  their  betters. 

The  court-room  began  to  fill  and  in  the  win- 


A  RISING  SUN 


93 


try  yard  the  groups  still  moiled  the  pros  and 
cons  of  the  issue. 

And  at  last  into  this  unfavorable  setting 
came  the  man  of  the  hour,  Patrick  Henry, 
striding  tall  and  gaunt  and  looking  neither 
to  right  nor  left. 

He  was  anxiously  met  and  spoken  by  his 
constituents,  and  it  was  while  thus  engaged 
that  he  looked  up  across  the  open  way  to  see 
approaching  none  other  than  that  one  of  all  his 
blood  for  whom,  beside  his  father,  Henry 
held  in  deepest  reverence, — namely  the  Rev¬ 
erend  Patrick  Henry,  his  uncle.  An  expres¬ 
sion  of  sharp  dismay  escaped  his  lips  and  Mr. 
Lee  remarked  its  cause. 

“Did  you  not  know  that  the  Reverend 
Henry  is  plaintiff  in  another  case  of  like  na¬ 
ture  now  pending?”  he  asked,  and  Patrick 
shook  his  head. 

The  woodsman  disengaged  himself  and  with 
great  diffidence  approached  his  uncle’s  car¬ 
riage. 

“It  grieves  me,  sir,”  he  said  simply  with  a 


94  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


line  of  care  between  the  usually  smiling  eyes, 
“to  see  you  here.” 

“Why  so?”  demanded  the  elder  man,  his 
keen  eyes,  not  unlike  his  nephew’s  own,  search¬ 
ing  him  from  head  to  foot. 

“Because,  sir,”  said  Patrick,  “you  know  that 
I  have  never  spoken  in  public,  and  I  fear 
that  I  shall  be  too  much  overawed  by  your 
presence  to  be  able  to  do  my  duty  by  my 
clients;  besides,  sir,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  say 
some  very  hard  things  of  the  clergy  and  I 
am  unwilling  to  give  pain  to  your  feelings.” 

“How  then,  sir,”  demanded  the  minister, 
“do  you  come  to  engage  in  this  cause  against 
us?” 

“For  three  reasons,”  said  Patrick  promptly, 
“which  I  consider  good.  Firstly, — the  clergy 
did  not  consider  me  worthy  to  retain.  Sec¬ 
ondly-—!  know  of  no  moral  reason  why  I 
should  refuse  a  fee  which  I  need.  Thirdly — - 
both  my  heart  and  judgment  as  well  as  my 
professional  duty  are  on  the  side  of  the  peo¬ 
ple.  And  now,  sir,”  he  continued  earnestly, 


A  RISING  SUN  95 

“you  could  do  me  no  greater  favor  than  to  re¬ 
turn  home.” 

The  aged  clergyman  stared  at  his  namesake 
for  a  pregnant  moment  in  undisguised  amaze¬ 
ment.  Then  his  pleasant  face  broke  into  a 
genial  smile. 

“My  boy,”  he  replied,  “as  to  your  saying 
hard  things  of  us, — why,  you  will  do  yourself 
the  greater  harm,  and  as  to  my  leaving  the 
ground  I  fear  that  my  presence  would  be 
neither  here  nor  there,  but  since  you  so  ear¬ 
nestly  desire  it,  I  shall  do  as  you  request.” 

Whereupon  he  entered  his  carriage  again 
drove  away. 

Thus  it  was  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Patrick  Henry  walked  up  the  aisle  of  a  court¬ 
room  bent  upon  the  business  of  the  law.  At 
his  first  appearance  a  stir  moved  in  the 
crowded  mass,  a  ripple  of  laughter  went  like 
a  wave  across  its  myriad  faces. 

But  as  the  man  strode  forward  this  breath 
of  merriment  seemed  to  wash  along  the  assem¬ 
bly  and  to  fall  in  this  quarter  and  that  to  a 


96  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


murmur,  until,  when  he  reached  the  open  space 
before  the  judge  and  turned  to  face  them  it 
was  hushed  to  silence. 

For  one  electric  moment  he  looked  at  them, 
then  sat  down.  But  one  and  all  had  noted  his 
appearance.  In  deference  to  the  court  he 
had  changed  his  clothes.  In  his  buckskins  he 
was  graceful,  lithe,  at  ease,  his  bronzed  face 
and  sunburnt  hair  blending  perfectly  to  make 
a  seeming  of  reflected  sunlight,  an  epitome 
of  the  open,  simple  and  natural.  In  the 
homespun  square-cut  and  cotton  shirt,  open 
at  the  neck,  he  was  another  man, — -gaunt,  un¬ 
gainly,  ill  at  ease.  But  even  in  his  uncouth¬ 
ness  there  was  a  vague  suggestion  of  power,  a 
commanding  quality — something  which  had 
hushed  the  laughter. 

The  people  settled  themselves  to  listen,  and 
the  trial  opened. 

The  hum  of  a  multitude  quieting  was  in 
Patrick  Henry’s  ears,  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  held  in  ridicule  by  most  of  it  was  in  his 
heart,  and  most  disconcerting  of  all  there  sat 


A  RISING  SUN 


97 


in  the  chair  of  the  presiding  magistrate  none 
other  than  his  own  father! 

But  there  was  something  in  the  man,  some¬ 
thing  waiting  latent,  a  force,  a  power,  which 
no  one  in  that  room  except  himself — and  one 
other — suspected. 

So  he  sat  in  awkward  silence  while  his  op¬ 
ponent  opened  the  cause  and  stated  confi¬ 
dently  why,  and  upon  what  point  of  law 
the  clergy  demanded  damages.  He  listened 
while  the  worthy  and  eloquent  Mr.  Lyons 
lauded  his  clients  to  the  skies,  enlarging  upon 
their  benevolence,  their  chastity  and  their  un¬ 
selfish  services  to  mankind. 

Twenty  clergymen,  the  ablest,  most  learned 
and  critical  men  in  the  colony,  packed  behind 
their  spokesman,  smiled  in  tolerant  and  kindly 
amusement  when  Mr.  Lyons  finished  with  a 
flourish  and  rested. 

That  smile  became  broader  as  Patrick 
Henry,  raw  in  his  new  estate,  rose  awkwardly 
and  began  to  speak. 

Was  it  that  pleasant  raillery  which  made 


98  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

him  falter  and  fumble  a  moment  with  his 
speech?  Was  it  the  uneasy  and  anxious  faces 
of  his  constituents,  the  flushed  embarrassment 
of  the  elder  Henry  who  was  seen  fairly  to 
shrink  and  wither  in  his  chair? 

Or  was  it  the  face  of  a  girl,  half  hid  in  the 
crowd,  whose  spirited  dark  eyes  and  lovely 
face  blazed  out  like  a  light  in  darkness, — ■ 
Hoxey  Fairweather  come  from  her  father’s 
inn  to  hear  him  fail?  These  things  have  due 
effect  upon  the  human  will,  and  for  a  little 
time  the  new  barrister  fell  direfully  under 
them;  but  not  for  long. 

As  a  good  ship,  slipped  from  its  way,  rocks 
and  quivers  with  its  first  impact  with  the  water 
and  finally  finds  itself,  to  become  steady  on 
an  even  keel,  master  of  its  element, — so  Pat¬ 
rick  Henry  found  himself  in  these  waters  of 
adversity. 

For  the  first  time  the  eloquence  of  thought 
and  vision  which  had  been  mute  within  him, 
found  expression.  The  awkwardness  dropped 
away  from  him,  as  a  garment.  His  shoulders 


A  RISING  SUN 


99 


lifted,  his  head  flung  itself  up  and  back,  his 
blue  eyes  began  to  shine  and  sparkle  as  none 
who  knew  him  had  ever  seen  them  sparkle, — 
and  he  caught  up  his  audience  with  swift  and 
headlong  genius. 

What  he  said  none  could  afterward  state 
with  accuracy. 

They  only  knew  that  from  the  very  begin¬ 
ning,  when  he  first  flung  up  his  head  and  shook 
the  stammering  from  his  silver  tongue,  they 
were  his  astounded  captives,  that  here  and 
there  they  found  themselves  leaning  forward 
as  in  a  trance,  listening  with  emotions  that  ran 
to  his  sharp  bidding  like  slaves.  That  they 
were  indignant — thrilled — and  reduced  to 
quivering  sympathy  by  turns ! 

And  for  what?  The  price  of  tobacco! 

Afterward  when  men  of  sane  mentality  and 
judicious  character  discussed  the  thing  they 
were  at  loss  to  comprehend  it,  a  bit  chagrined 
at  memory  of  their  stirred  emotions  in  such  a 
trivial  cause. 

But  in  that  enchanted  hour  when  this  man 


100  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


spoke,  Penelope  Dunmore  sat  with  tight-shut 
hands  and  saw  a  vision, — while  Mr.  Jefferson 
gazed  at  his  friend  with  fascinated  eyes,  and 
Colonel  Danby  gaped  in  his  white  beard,  too 
astonished  to  observe  the  niceties  of  deport¬ 
ment  for  which  he  was  noted. 

Patrick  Henry  swept  on  like  a  torrent. 

The  tension  became  strained,  the  silence 
deathlike.  The  complacence  of  the  clergy 
vanished,  fright  took  its  place,  and  even  a 
seeming  of  guilt  fell  upon  these  good  men  who 
considered  their  ground  right  and  well  taken, 
— of  such  persuasive  power  was  this  homely 
orator ! 

As  the  pitch  of  his  invective  rose,  as  the 
whip  of  his  scorn  cut  viperishly  in  the  stillness, 
they  rose  in  a  body  and  fled  the  courtroom ! 

The  hushed  mass  drew  breath  that  whistled 
with  the  tension.  The  magistrate  on  his 
bench  looked  at  this  stranger  who  was  his  son, 
and  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

The  jury,  shaken  to  its  foundations,  for 
what  reason  they  scarcely  knew,  filed  out  and 


A  RISING  SUN 


101 


immediately  returned  with  a  verdict  of  dam¬ 
ages — for  one  penny! 

And  the  case  was  won.  Patrick  Henry’s 
sun  had  risen, — and  it  was  never  to  set.  The 
buzz  that  rose  in  the  courtyard  was  vague  but 
vehement. 

Here  and  there  one  laid  hold  of  some  frag¬ 
ment  of  that  speech  which  had  swung  from 
tobacco  to  the  English  court  in  its  insolent 
daring,  and  flailed  it  bitterly,  for  there  were 
among  his  listeners  that  day  men  who  were  to 
become  his  enemies. 

As  Patrick  Henry  came  out  upon  the  court¬ 
house  steps,  Mr.  Jefferson,  down  upon  the 
pave  below,  stopped  and  looked  back  at  him, 
moved  on,  and  again  stopped  to  turn  his  keen 
eyes  backward.  He,  too,  was  seeing  visions  of 
the  future. 

But  in  a  group  of  younger  men  bold  Tim 
Lovelace  was  saying  hotly:  “Heard  you  that 
about  ‘unrest’?  Marry!  The  man’s  a  whig!” 

And  Timothy,  too,  turned  curious  eyes  to¬ 
ward  the  tall  figure  on  the  courthouse  steps. 


102  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Mr.  Payton,  along  with  Mr.  Jefferson,  ap¬ 
proached  Patrick  Henry. 

“From  this  day,  sir,”  said  the  former,  “I 
shall  no  more  upbraid  myself  for  giving  you 
a  license  at  the  law.  I  am  astounded.” 

“Pay  me  my  wager,  Henry,”  said  Mistress 
Penelope  a  few  days  later  to  Mr.  Corton, 
“What  think  you  now  of  my  insight?” 

“I  think  more  than  I  say,”  returned  the  dis- 
comfited  loser  darkly,  “though  I  might  inti¬ 
mate  that  I  believe  you  had  whispered  in  his 
Honor’s  ear  or  ever  the  trial  began.” 

Word  of  the  trial  went  swiftly  about  the 
country  and  Patrick  Henry,  who  had  disap¬ 
peared  to  his  rivers  and  forests  once  more,  was 
talked  of  in  every  tap -room  and  about  every 
planter’s  table. 

But  there  were  those  who  spoke  of  him  and 
his  achievement  with  gravity  and  none  so 
pleased  a  front.  Among  these  was  Governor 
Dunmore,  himself,  and  that  handsome  stran¬ 
ger,  von  Kneibling,  from  London  Town. 

“I  like  not  this  fiddling  wastrel’s  ability,” 


A  RISING  SUN 


103 


said  the  Governor  to  a  circle  of  his  friends, 
while  the  stirrup-peg  went  around.  “It  is  ever 
a  bad  sign  when  a  commoner  gets  himself 
talked  about  with  praise.  It  hath  a  tendency 
to  aspirations  and  flights  of  fancy.” 

“For  which  same  many  a  good  man  has  lost 
his  head,”  said  Doctor  Janway. 

“And  many  another  will,”  supplemented 
the  German  quickly.  “I  wonder  that  you, 
sir,  permit  him  to  roam  at  large.” 

The  Governor  stared  at  the  speaker. 

“What?  Confine  a  man  for  so  laudable  a 
thing  as  bringing  peace  among  disputants?  I 
rather  countenance  the  performance,  myself. 
I  merely  spoke  of  a  condition  in  the  abstract.” 

“Well,”  said  Mr.  Merwin,  a  barrister  of 
marked  ability  and  held  in  great  esteem  in  all 
the  countryside,  “he  is  a  lighter  of  flames,  I 
will  say  that  for  him.  I  should  not  relish  him 
against  me,  an  I  were  on  trial  for  my  life, 
either  guilty  or  innocent.” 

“Nor  I,”  agreed  Mr.  Randolph.  And  the 
opinion  crystallized  and  stood. 


THE  RUMBLING 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  RUMBLING 

THOSE  discussions  which  the  new  barris¬ 
ter  had  so  fearlessly  mentioned  were  taking 
place  with  more  and  more  frequency.  In 
Richmond  little  groups  of  grave  men  spoke 
guardedly  of  the  intolerable  conditions  which 
the  Crown  pressed  home  upon  the  Colonies, 
of  the  constantly  increasing  armies  quartered 
upon  them,  of  the  ceaseless  effort  to  make  the 
military  independent  of  and  superior  to  the 
civil  power.  This  matter  of  the  soldiery  was 
a  festering  sore  in  the  Colonial  side.  The 
new  country,  peaceful,  busily  productive,  was 
only  desirous  of  harmony  and  genial  treatment 
from  its  government.  It  wanted  its  own 
laws,  its  own  legislation,  and  these  were  in¬ 
terfered  with  ever  and  anon.  It  seemed  a 

grinning  perversity  sat  behind  all  its  attempts 

107 


108  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


to  establish  for  itself  that  right  and  sane  juris¬ 
diction  which  it  so  sorely  needed,  being  so  far 
across  seas  from  the  seat  of  government. 
Taxes  were  imposed  under  which  the  plant¬ 
ers  smarted.  A  thousand  oppressions  and 
harassments  daily  irked  the  struggling  New 
World,  cruelties  unnecessary  and  deadening 
to  its  growth. 

“I  tell  you,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Francis 
Lee  of  Jamestown  on  a  day  in  that  uneasy 
summer,  “it  is  usage  of  slaves  we  undergo, 
nothing  less.  Who  else  could,  or  would,  bear 
the  deprivation  of  natural  rights  such  as  the 
Colonies  bear,  and  stand  the  yoke  in  meek¬ 
ness?” 

“Slaves?  You  say  slaves ,  sir?”  cried  that 
Mr.  Bainridge  Courthy  who  had  never  ceased 
to  pine  for  the  cliffs  of  Dover,  his  pale  face 
flushed  with  passion.  “You  use  the  word 
upon  His  Majesty’s  subjects?” 

“I  do,  sir,”  answered  the  other  steadily, 
“and  stand  by  my  word.” 

“Yes,  and  I  abet  it,”  broke  in  Mr.  Carroll 


THE  RUMBLING 


109 


of  Carrollton.  “We  have  been  too  long- 
suffering,  and  have  reaped  as  reward  the  in¬ 
creased  pressure  of  tyranny.  I  turn  sleep¬ 
less  in  my  bed  of  nights,  thinking  on  the  is¬ 
sue.” 

“And  many  another  in  the  districts  north, 
south  and  everywhere,”  said  a  Mr  Walton, 
who  was  up  on  matters  appertaining  to  the 
moving  of  his  tobacco  crop  in  Georgia.  “I 
know  of  more  than  I  could  count  from  now 
till  night  who  have  thus  vitally  at  heart  the 
same  unbearable  things.” 

“Then,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Courthy, 
tensely,  “I  term  you  Whigs  and  traitors,  and 
beg  you  will  excuse  my  presence.” 

And,  bowing  stiffly,  he  was  for  leaving  them 
in  a  white  heat  of  anger. 

But  Mr.  Carroll  dropped  a  heavy  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  swung  him  back  to  face  them. 
Mr.  Carroll’s  eyes  were  blazing,  too. 

“Sir,”  he  said,  “  I  like  not  to  seem  discourte¬ 
ous,  nor  to  speak  of  what  none  mentions  who 
respects  another’s  tragedy,  but  I  fail  to  see, 


110  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


before  God,  how  you,  of  all  men  in  Virginia, 
can  stand  so  blindly  for  a  King  who  gave  you 
practical  banishment  for — a  mistaken  politi¬ 
cal  zeal,  let  us  say,  which  caused  you  to 
blunder  in  the  performance  of  a  royal  com¬ 
mission.  You,  of  all  men  in  Virginia,  I  re¬ 
peat,  seem  to  bear  the  heaviest  load  of  injus¬ 
tice,  since  it  is  sharply  personal.  Then,  sir, 
I  say,  How  now? — How  now  can  you  bear 
your  yoke  in  supine  meekness  ?” 

Mr.  Courthy’s  poor  face  quivered  as  if  he 
had  been  struck.  He  flung  back  his  shoul¬ 
ders,  and  lifted  his  head  with  a  regal  motion, 
gazing  straight  in  the  tense  faces  before  him. 

“I  am  a  loyal  subject  of  His  Majesty,  King 
George,”  he  said,  with  a  gallant  ring  to  his 
voice,  “and  as  such  would  give  my  life.” 

Before  that  high  idealism,  mistaken  though 
it  seemed  to  every  man  present,  Mr.  Carroll 
dropped  his  hand  and  held  it  out. 

“Forgive  me,  sir,”  he  said.  “Every  man  to 
his  constraining  conscience.  Who  am  I,  to 
question  yours?” 


THE  RUMBLING 


111 


The  other  took  the  proffered  hand — and  it 
was  to  be  for  the  last  time,  as  circumstances 
afterward  proved — bowed  to  the  circle,  and 
withdrew. 

“A  year  ago,”  said  Francis  Lee,  “and  each 
and  every  one  of  us  would  have  struck  the 
mouth  that  called  us  traitor!” 

“Aye,”  returned  Mr.  Walton,  “but  now  we 
must  bear  with  it  in  patience,  since  to  the  ma¬ 
jority  we  may  seem  to  merit  it.  I  pray  God 
to  hasten  the  day  when  that  majority  will 
open  their  eyes  to  the  same  light  that  we  are 
seeing  on  the  horizon.” 

Speech  such  as  this  was  heard  among  the 
chosen  at  many  places;  in  certain  tap-rooms 
in  the  towns,  in  ball-rooms,  and  along  the 
peaceful  roads  where  the  elm  trees  drowsed. 
Men  smouldered  and  smarted  beneath  their 
wrongs ;  thought,  and  struggled  with  their 
consciences  and  their  loyalty.  Something  was 
stirring  to  its  horning  in  the  heart  of  the 
strong  young  land — something  destined  to 
dominate  the  earth. 


112  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


And  here  and  there  went  one  who  spoke — 
and  men  listened. 

On  the  stream’s  edge  great  visions  came  to 
Patrick  Henry,  sitting  in  idleness,  his  line 
a- jerking  with  its  catch,  the  roan  horse  dream¬ 
ing  in  hip-dropped  rest  on  the  bank  beside 
him.  Often  the  man’s  blue  eyes  stared  un¬ 
seeing  across  the  quiet  waters  to  where  the 
green  trees,  dipping  their  slim  fingers  in  the 
placid  surface,  made  a  fine  background  for  the 
flaming  pictures  that  he  saw.  For  this  simple 
man  of  the  forest  peered  into  the  future  with 
the  vision  of  prophecy.  He  beheld  a  country 
peopled  in  every  part,  magnificent  and  proud ; 
a  nation  which  was  its  own  possession,  sane 
and  glad  with  liberty. 

He  saw  freedom  rise  like  a  phoenix;  and  he 
knew  there  would  be  flame  and  ash  below. 
He  saw  danger  and  death  and  heartbreak  ram¬ 
pant  all  up  and  down  the  land,  yet  he  saw 
glory  shining  through  the  murk  like  the  face  of 
God. 


THE  RUMBLING 


113 


Ah!  what  did  not  Patrick  Henry  see  on 
the  background  of  the  still  green  trees  across 
the  drowsy  waters! 

Like  the  peasant  girl  of  France,  he  heard  his 
voices,  beheld  his  visions.  And  he,  too,  car¬ 
ried  them  before  the  people. 

Sometimes,  among  a  few  friends,  he  spoke 
words  that  might  have  cost  him  his  head;  but 
the  gist  of  his  speech  filtered  out  in  secret 
ways  to  spread  like  oil  on  water.  It  reached 
here  and  there,  sent  eyes  a-following  him  when 
he  appeared  in  the  streets  of  Jamestown. 

But  Patrick  Henry  was  not  the  only  one 
who  who  felt  the  great,  vague  stir.  Mr. 
Washington  and  his  friends  were  meeting  and 
talking  constantly,  and  the  greatest  gravity 
attended  them. 

Day  by  day  more  men  were  becoming  talked 
about ;  more  names  were  coming  under  the  op¬ 
probrious  title  of  Whig;  strong  friendships 
were  being  severed  by  difference  of  opinion. 

Poor  Mr.  Bainridge  was  in  a  constant  fever 


114  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


of  anger  and  agitation;  and  the  Randolphs, 
old  and  young,  cut  sharply  every  one  of  their 
acquaintances  who  did  not  ring  clear  Tory. 

Governor  Dunmore  sent  out  rigorous  warn¬ 
ings  to  stop  the  dangerous  talk  and  posted 
the  square  of  Jamestown  with  threats  of  dire 
and  severe  punishment  to  be  meted  out  to  all 
and  any  who  did  not  heed. 

The  rising  wave  of  unrest  reached  the  shel¬ 
tered  boudoirs  of  the  ladies  of  the  Colonies, 
and  many  a  pretty  mouth  soiled  itself  with 
what  was  termed  treason,  among  them  that  of 
Euphenie  La  Porte;  for  this  willful  and  im¬ 
perious  girl  dearly  loved  strife  and  danger  of 
any  sort,  and  the  very  thought  of  rebellion 
fired  her  from  head  to  foot. 

But  not  to  her  friend  Penelope  did  she  say 
one  word  of  this — Penelope,  whom  she  adored 
devoutly. 

Sheila  Lovelace  was  another  matter,  how¬ 
ever.  For  where  was  there  ever  sound  of 
drums,  or  the  faint  far  promise  of  them,  that 
did  not  rouse  the  Irish  heart?  Even  before 


THE  RUMBLING 


115 


her  brother  let  go  and  flung  himself  into  the 
new  movement  with  all  the  glowing  fervor  of 
his  nature,  Sheila  was  a  whig  at  heart.  So 
these  two  girls  whispered  of  the  same  great 
things  that  sent  men  talking  in  secret  groups 
— fair  flowers  of  girls,  dallying  with  shadows 
of  flames! 

It  was  when  the  summer  was  half  done  that 
Timothy  Lovelace  felt  the  touch  of  the  sa¬ 
cred  fire.  He  stopped  Mr.  Jefferson  one  day 
and,  with  a  white  face  and  shaking  lips,  con¬ 
fronted  him. 

“Torn,”  he  said  tensely,  “there  was  a  night 
at  the  Cock’s  Feather  in  the  early  spring  when 
you  and  I  looked  hard  in  each  other’s  eyes  and 
saw  there  grave  things  that  wrung  our  hearts. 
Recall  you  that  occasion?” 

“I  do,”  said  Mr.  Jefferson,  and  waited. 

“I  was  hot  in  my  loyalty  to  His  Majesty 
that  night,  and  did  presume  to  question  you 
for  standing  by  in  friendliness  to  that  shabby 
commoner,  who  was  even  then  in  bad  repute 
among  all  loyalists.  Today  I  beg  your  in- 


116  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


dulgence  for  my  youth  and  temper.  Today 
I,  too,  say,  as  you  said  then,  ‘a  man’s  inten¬ 
tions  are  between  him  and  his  God.’  I,  too, 
know  what  I  am  saying  and  what  my  words 
may  mean.” 

The  boy  wet  his  pale  lips  while  his  merry 
eyes  were  dark  with  the  excitement  of  the 
times.  Mr.  Jefferson  smiled,  putting  forth 
his  hand  to  crush  that  of  his  friend  therein. 
The  mounting  light  of  patriotism  was  in  his 
face. 

“Thank  God  for  you,  Timothy!”  he  said 
fervently.  “I  do  thank  Him  for  you!  Such 
as  you  and  I — and  many  of  the  young  gentle¬ 
men  of  Jamestown  and  Richmond  whom  I 
might  name — cannot  rest  long  beneath  the 
iron  heel  of  oppression.  The  Hessian  blood 
is  intolerable,  pressing  home  its  power.  How 
long,  think  you,  can  we  endure  as  we  are? 
How  long  allow  our  laws  to  be  abolished  at 
will,  our  charters  taken  away,  our  Representa¬ 
tive  Houses  to  be  dissolved?  How  long  bow 
to  a  tyranny  that  grinds  us  with  a  thousand 


THE  RUMBLING 


117 


studied  wrongs?  An  we  are  men  and  Ameri¬ 
cans  we  will  revolt.  And  I  say,  for  one,  the 
sooner  the  better!” 

Timothy  Lovelace  came  to  attend  the  small 
gatherings  which  strove  so  earnestly  to  get 
at  the  root  of  this  momentous  matter;  and 
there  he  sometimes  met  and  listened  to  Pat¬ 
rick  Henry,  whose  wondrous  spiritual  fire 
clothed  his  words  with  magic.  And,  be  it  said 
to  the  young  blade’s  honor,  he  went  once  and 
gave  his  hand  to  the  lank  man  of  the  back- 
woods  whom  he  had  once  reviled.  Patrick 
Henry  took  it,  hardly  recognizing  its  owner, 
for  he  was  so  high  in  the  clouds  of  patriotism 
that  the  immediate  things  of  earth  seemed  neb¬ 
ulous  that  day. 

by  this  time  had 

flown  all  over  the  Colonies. 

He  was  called  Whig  and  traitor,  and  other 
things  as  bad ;  yet  there  were  many  who  swore 
by  him  as  a  man  of  true  vision.  The  great 
travail  of  the  future  took  hold  on  him  and 
sent  him  restlessly  here  and  there,  wherever 


Word  of  Patrick  Henry 


118  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


were  gathered  those  who  would  listen  to  him; 
for  he  had  begun  to  discover  that  he  bore  be¬ 
tween  his  lips  a  charm.  Always  when  he 
spoke  men  listened;  and  he  knew  dimly  that 
when  he  was  in  full  power  of  his  simple 
speech  he  could  swing  them  hither  and  yon 
as  he  willed. 

There  was  that  in  his  persuasive  voice  which 
played  upon  the  human  heart  like — like — a 
woman’s  fingers  on  a  spinnet’s  keys! 

Those  spinnet  keys  at  the  Cock’s  Feather 
Inn  had  struck  deep  in  among  the  melodies  of 
his  nature,  and  he  seemed  on  many  occasions 
to  hear  again  their  nameless  tunes  sighing  in 
the  twilight  of  the  tender  spring. 

But  the  man  had  scant  time  for  romancing, 
what  with  his  constantly  recurring  visions,  his 
rides  of  forty,  sixty  and  an  hundred  miles 
from  this  meeting  point  to  that,  and  the  terri¬ 
ble  gravity  of  the  moment. 

He  did,  however,  recall,  with  a  thrill,  the 
earnest  face  of  the  young  girl  that  day  by  the 
courthouse  door,  what  time  he  pleaded  his  fa- 


THE  RUMBLING  119 

mous  case;  and  once  he  presumed  upon  that 
memory. 

It  was  twilight  again  of  a  silent  summer’s 
day,  and  Doxey,  alone  for  once,  since  her 
father  had  gone  to  Richmond  on  some  errand 
of  provender  for  the  inn,  sat  playing  her  airs, 
as  was  her  wont,  in  the  outer  room. 

Upon  her  spirit  had  fallen,  too,  the  unrest 
of  the  times,  and  her  mouth  that  smiled  so 
often  had  taken  on  new  lines  of  staid  repres¬ 
sion.  The  pouring  music  that  came  from  be¬ 
neath  her  fingers  was  of  a  different  fibre  from 
those  elusive  tunes  which  she  was  wont  to  play 
some  several  months  before,  being  in  accord, 
unconsciously,  with  the  surcharged  feeling  of 
the  day.  It  streamed  into  the  darkness  of  the 
warm  night  with  martial  seeming,  with  a  vague 
forecast  of  drums  and  the  tread  of  march¬ 
ing  feet.  The  girl’s  fair  face  was  lifted  in  the 
shadows,  and  it  bore  the  look  of  martyrs — the 
keen,  rapt  look  of  one  who  serves — a  God,  a 
country,  or — a  king.  She  beheld  in  fancy  the 
glory  of  her  sovereign,  as  she  had  been  taught 


120  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


to  do  since  babyhood.  And  she  was  Tory- 
born. 

Rut  youth  is  versatile,  given  to  quick  transi¬ 
tion,  and  mood  follows  mood  like  the  ripples 
of  wind  in  grass. 

Presently  her  sweet  face  drooped  in  pen¬ 
sive  tenderness,  and  she  fell  to  playing  “The 
Rose  and  Thorn.”  If  she  fancied  a  tall  form 
darkened  the  shadows  by  the  door,  she  was 
none  to  blame.  Thus  she  played  on  and  on — 
her  maiden  thoughts  as  pure  and  shadowy  as 
moonlight  on  thistle-down — so  that  she  did  not 
hear  at  first  the  deeper,  finer,  softer  timbre 
of  the  music  that  seemed  to  flood  the  night. 
It  seemed  only  a  deepening  of  her  spiritual 
mood,  a  richer  appreciation  of  the  tender  song. 

At  last  her  fingers  drooped  on  the  keys, 
stopped  of  their  own  volition,  as  their  owner 
lost  herself  in  her  reflections,  and  for  a  full 
minute  the  girl  did  not  realize  that  the  music 
still  went  on! 

Out  of  the  dew-damp  night,  beyond  her 
window  and  the  open  door,  the  strains  of  “The 


THE  RUMBLING  121 

Rose  and  Thorn”  still  trembled  with  their  in¬ 
imitable  longing!  Doxey  Fairweather  opened 
her  beautiful  mouth  in  astonishment,  and  lis¬ 
tened.  Without  a  doubt,  a  spell  was  on  the 
forest — witchcraft  was  here — for  a  sobbing 
voice  was  pleading  with  the  lover  in  the  song, 
even  as  her  spinnet  had  pleaded, — but  in 
what  exquisitely  golden  tones,  what  heart¬ 
breaking  melody! 

She  held  her  breath  and  listened.  One  ca¬ 
pable  hand  was  laid  to  her  heart,  as  any  of  her 
daintier  sisters  of  the  aristocracy  might  have 
laid  their  rose-leaf  fingers.  She  was  on  the 
moment  all  girl,  and  the  martial  music  was 
forgotten. 

Nearer  came  the  plaintive  voice,  like  a  dis¬ 
embodied  soul,  drifting  across  the  dust  of  the 
beaten  yard,  drew  near  to  the  dusky  door ;  and 
the  maid  beheld  against  the  stars  a  tall  form 
with  a  violin  upon  its  shoulder. 

As  the  last  strains  of  “The  Rose  and  Thorn” 
died  piteously  upon  the  night  she  thought  of 
the  words  of  her  father  after  the  episode  of 


122  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


the  night  of  the  card  game — “a  fishing,  fid- 
ding  ne’er-do-well” — and  knew  upon  the  in¬ 
stant  that  the  man  in  the  outer  shadow  was 
Patrick  Henry. 

But  the  exquisite  blending  of  the  instru¬ 
ments,  so  that  she  had  not  known  where  the 
spinnet  left  off  and  the  violin  began,  was  irre¬ 
sistible,  and  she  sat  still  as  a  mouse,  half  trem¬ 
bling  with  a  vague  delight. 

For  a  long  moment  no  word  was  spoken. 

Then  the  man  sighed,  lowered  the  violin, 
and  waited.  There  was  something  imperious 
in  that  silent  waiting,  and  the  girl  felt  it. 

But  she  did  not  move;  and  presently  Patrick 
Henry  spoke. 

“Mistress,”  he  said  softly,  in  that  deep 
voice  which  seemed  to  have  such  power,  “can 
you  resist  'The  Rose  and  Thorn?’  It  drew 
me  once — and  I  have  followed  since.  It  lives 
in  my  heart.  Will  you  not  come  to  its  call, 
even  so  far  as  the  sill  of  the  door?” 

Doxey  rose  and  went  toward  him,  not  of  her 
own  will,  assuredlv — for  that  drew  a  little  line 


THERE  WAS  SOMETHING  IMPERIOUS  IN  THAT  SILENT 

WAITING 


THE  RUMBLING 


123 


of  uncertainty  between  her  straight  brows — 
but  after  a  fashion  helplessly.  She  folded  her 
arms  across  her  girlish  bosom  and  leaned 
against  the  opposite  lintel,  looking  at  him  in 
the  dusk.  She  saw  the  lean  hawk’s  face  of 
him,  the  high  brow  beneath  the  brushed-back 
hair  that  was  innocent  of  powder,  the  pierc¬ 
ing  blue  eyes,  and  the  firm  mouth  that  shook 
at  times  with  tenderness.  Those  lips,  she  felt, 
could  set  in  a  line  of  rock-like  sternness,  or 
tremble  to  the  verge  of  sobs.  There  was 
something  about  their  changing  expression 
that  fascinated  her. 

“Sir,”  she  said,  gently,  “an  I  were  you  I 
should  not  come  here,  for  there  is  no  welcome 
for  you.” 

“Ah!”  said  the  man  quickly,  “there  speaks 
the  woman  by-ordinary  whom  I  thought  I 
had  found  once — and  still  find.  I  like  your 
straightforwardness,  Mistress.  It  smacks  of 
honesty.” 

“But  it  costs  me  much  in  kindness,  sir,” 
said  Doxey,  “for  I  like  not  to  hurt  another, 


124  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


yet  no  lighter  of  flames  against  my  king  is 
welcome  here.” 

“A  lighter  of  flames?”  mused  Patrick 
Henry.  “Aye,  a  good  word,  Mistress,  I  vow. 
You  have  well  named  me — ‘a  lighter  of 
flames’ !  But  I  came  not  here  to  talk  of  tragic 
things;  only  of  a  man’s  loneliness,  and  the 
sound  of  a  song  that  will  not  he  stilled.  Will 
you  not  listen,  even  for  a  little  space?” 

The  girl  was  frowning  and  her  fingers 
picked  at  her  kerchief’s  pipings.  She 
thought  vexedly  of  the  three  fish  wrapped  in 
the  mulberry  leaves;  and  again  of  the  flash  of 
this  man’s  hand  at  his  hip,  and  his  quick  chal¬ 
lenge  to  Lord  Lester  once — “an  you  will  fight 
I’ll  pin  that  lie  upon  your  lips!” 

His  uncouthness  of  manner  in  the  matter  of 
the  gift  yet  his  lean  grace  in  his  worn  buck¬ 
skins!  His  smiling  acceptance  of  the  scorn¬ 
ful  term  of  Whig — yet  those  mobile  lips 
curled  up  at  the  corners ! 

These  contradictions  whirled  in  her  head, 
and  still  she  stood  in  silence,  picking  at  her 


THE  RUMBLING 


125 


kerchief.  Patrick  Henry  then  reached  out  a 
hand  and  laid  it  lightly  upon  her  fingers,  still¬ 
ing  them  and  drawing  them  into  his  palm. 

“We  are  man  and  maid,  Mistress,”  he  said, 
in  a  whisper  that  thrilled  her  with  its  timbre; 
“man  and  maid  in  the  springtime  of  our  lives. 
Why  should  we  let  the  harsh  things  of  destiny 
drive  us  apart,  when  we  both  hear  alike  the 
wistful  pleading  of  ‘The  Rose  and  Thorn?’  ” 

Against  her  will,  as  if  the  fumes  of  her  fa¬ 
ther’s  ale  had  mulled  her  brain,  Doxey  felt  her¬ 
self  drawn  helplessly  toward  this  man.  She 
caught  the  fresh  scent  of  forest  and  stream 
that  clung  about  his  garments,  was  conscious  of 
his  hand,  the  coming  touch  of  his  arm  about 
her  shoulders. 

With  a  supreme  effort,  as  when  one  awakes 
from  an  appalling  dream  at  night,  she 
wrenched  herself  from  him  both  physically 
and  spiritually. 

“I  am  not  free  to  every  stranger,  sir,”  she 
said  hotly,  “that  rides  to  my  father’s  inn! 
Think  you  to  take  for  granted  the  privileges 


126  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


I  have  given  as  yet  to  none?  Have  I  so  con¬ 
ducted  myself  that  you  think  thus  lightly  of 
me?” 

There  was  in  her  voice  so  much  outraged 
maidenliness,  such  keen  distress  and,  it  must 
be  said,  rage  as  well,  that  Patrick  Henry 
loosed  the  hand  he  held  and  fell  back  from  her 
a  pace. 

“I  meant  not  to  offend,”  he  answered  hum¬ 
bly;  “and  you  should  know,  who  are  so  keen, 
what  was  in  my  heart  this  night — what  of 
tenderness  and  high  dreams.  But  see,  Mis¬ 
tress — I  am  in  the  dust  before  you  for  any¬ 
thing  wherein  I  may  have  blundered.  I  beg 
your  favor  and  forgiveness.” 

He  dropped  on  one  knee,  took  up  her  kir- 
tle’s  hem  and,  laying  it  to  his  lips,  kissed  it 
with  reverence. 

Doxey  Fairweather  opened  and  closed  her 
clenched  hand,  while  her  face  worked  with 
conflicting  feelings. 

As  the  man  rose  to  his  tall  height,  towering 
beside  her,  he  held  out  the  violin  and  its  bow. 


THE  RUMBLING 


127 


“Will  you  keep  it,  Mistress?”  he  asked, 
sadly.  “I  shall  have  no  use  for  it  now,  since 
I  can  no  longer  play  ‘The  Rose  and  Thorn,’ 
which  hath  so  illy  served  me  this  summer’s 
night.  If  the  time  ever  comes  when  you  will 
listen,  send  me  it  back — and  the  flowers  will 
bloom  in  the  forest  again.” 

He  turned  from  her,  put  his  fingers  to  his 
lips,  and  blew  a  sharp  whistle.  At  its  imperi¬ 
ous  call  a  big  roan  horse  trotted  quickly  from 
the  shadow  of  a  nearby  tree  and  stopped  be¬ 
side  its  master. 

Patrick  Henry  leaped  lithely  to  the  saddle 
and  waited  just  a  moment,  looking  down. 

“Good  even,  Mistress,”  he  said  gently.  “I 
> — still  believe.”  Then  he  was  gone. 

The  girl  stood  by  the  lintel  holding  the  old 
violin,  still  warm  from  his  hand,  and  there 
was  a  tiny  trembling  at  the  corners  of  her 
lips. 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


CHAPTER  VII 


“i’ll  ride  again,  your  excellency!” 

SECRECY  was  being  abandoned.  Friends 
were  cleaving  from  friends.  Families  were 
being  divided.  Loyalists  and  radicals  frowned 
at  each  other  in  the  streets  of  the  towns. 
Coaches  that  had  been  wont  to  stop  on  the 
shady  pike,  while  fair  faces  peered  laughing 
from  their  windows  to  gossip  of  a  thousand 
friendly  things,  now  passed  at  a  sharp  trot. 
At  rout  and  party  the  list  of  those  invited 
was  being  sharply  cut.  Governor  Dunmore 
passed  among  his  people  with  a  grave  face. 
Once  he  stood  so  long  and  looked  at  Mr. 
Washington  before  taking  his  hand  that  many 
a  foot  shifted  uneasily,  many  a  face  lost  color. 

“Zounds,  sir!”  said  Mr.  Bainridge  to  a 
group  of  gentlemen  later,  “it  seems  to  me  the 
young  man’s  eyes  must  have  fallen  from  sheer 

131 


132  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


guilt  of  intention,  but,  as  I  stand  here,  he  did 
not  even  falter  in  his  bow,  there  was  no  flicker 
of  his  eyelids!  A  most  astounding  thing!” 

At  the  Governor’s  house  many  gentlemen 
came  and  went.  Bateaux  came  down  the 
river  from  the  upper  plantations  and  loyal 
subjects  talked  of  King  George  in  the  heat  of 
allegiance  and  good  wine,  pledging  him  with 
flowers  of  speech.  Word  of  all  this  went 
back  in  the  ships,  as  perhaps  the  speakers 
meant  it  should,  and  carried  their  names  into 
high  circles. 

But  in  Virginia  there  was  more  to  do  than 
raise  a  cup  and  shout  fealty,  for  the  faint 
flames  that  had  flickered  here  and  there  were 
now  fluttering  house-top  high. 

Open  meetings  were  beginning  to  be  held. 
At  some  of  these  Patrick  Henry,  the  unknown 
backwoodsman,  stood  like  a  gallant  lance 
and  spoke — a  second  Daniel.  Whatever  he 
touched  with  his  running  fire  of  speech  burst 
into  flame. 

“I  tell  you,  mine  friend,”  said  Herr  von 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


133 


Kneibling  to  His  Excellency  the  Governor, 
“this  man  is  a  danger  and  a  menace.  I  warn 
you  again,  at  large  he  should  not  be.” 

And  this  time  His  Excellency  listened  with 
a  frown. 

“You  may  be  right,  sir,”  he  said;  “yet  I 
like  not  to  touch  off  the  powder  which  I  feel 
sure  is  laid  in  him.” 

From  beyond  the  table  where  the  two  men 
sat  over  a  pewter  of  ale  Penelope  raised  her 
hazel  eyes  and  looked  at  them.  She  was  work¬ 
ing  a  sampler,  a  wondrous  thing  of  gay  wool¬ 
ens  that  had  sweet  green  trees  drowsing  by  a 
silent  stream,  her  fair  fingers  traveling  slowly 
while  she  listened.  In  a  deep  chair  near  her 
side  Lord  Lester  lay  stretched  at  his  graceful 
length  and  paid  her  pretty  speeches  from  time 
to  time.  This  handsome  young  man  was  a 
favorite  with  all  the  fair  of  the  Colonies,  both 
matron  and  maid,  and  he  was  somewhat 
spoiled  with  over-much  indulgence.  Now  his 
golden  brows  drew  down  and  he  flecked  his 
ruffles  idly. 


134  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“The  German  hath  a  keen  insight  for  the 
future,”  he  said  to  Penelope.  “We  think 
alike.” 

“Fie!”  said  the  girl  quickly,  “you  compli¬ 
ment  yourself,  my  lord.” 

“How  now?  Compliment  myself?  I  did 
but  praise  another’s  wit.” 

“And  compare  it  to  your  own.” 

The  nobleman  smiled,  regarding  her. 

'Though  you  catch  me  hard  and  pin  me  to 
earth  without  remorse,  Mistress  Pen,”  he  said, 
“I  must  still  bow  to  you.  That  pretty  tongue 
of  yours  is  ever  a  delight,  even  to  its  victims.” 

But  the  girl  had  forgotten  him,  for  her 
father  was  speaking  tensely  of  the  situation  in 
the  Colonies  and  of  the  very  grave  seeming  of 
those  who  spoke  of  rights  and  tyrannies. 

Ever  when  the  gentlemen  spoke  thus  she 
must  needs  listen,  and  for  some  unknown  rea¬ 
son  the  heart  in  her  breast  was  troubled, 
though  she  could  not  believe  that  Virginia 
would  ever  turn  disloyal  to  her  sovereign  across 
the  seas. 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


135 


Lord  Lester  idly  watched  her,  taking  clean 
joy  of  her  powdered  hair;  for  indoors  Mis¬ 
tress  Penelope  was  a  mirror  of  Dame  Fash¬ 
ion,  with  her  dark  brows,  like  twin  crescents 
on  the  milky  whiteness  of  her  skin,  the  droop 
of  her  long  lashes,  and  the  curve  of  her  peach- 
bloom  cheeks. 

“How  doubly  fair  she  is!”  he  thought  with 
a  sigh.  “Sweeter  than  any  maid  in  Virginia 
— excepting  one!” 

And  he  fell  to  thinking  on  that  one  who 
went  about  her  humble  tasks  beside  the  James¬ 
town  pike,  lowly  of  station,  yet  so  true,  so 
kind,  so  fair,  that  he  would  fain  take  her  to 
his  heart  and  home — yet  who  would  have  none 
of  him! — a  tavern-keeper’s  daughter,  who 
shook  her  dark  head  when  a  nobleman  spoke 
of  wedlock!  It  was  incomprehensible,  and 
served  but  to  give  added  spurs  to  his  already 
wild  desire. 

Here  a  serving-maid  came  softly  in  and 
bent  at  her  mistress’  shoulder — Patience  Con- 
well,  a-bloom  with  well-being — to  whisper 


136  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

some  private  word.  Penelope  arose  with 
eagerness. 

“My  lord/’  she  said,  “I  have  word  of  the 
arrival  but  now  of  Euphenie  and  Sheila,  to¬ 
gether  with  Harry  Corton  and  Brithan  Ran¬ 
dolph.  Will  you  come  to  greet  them  with 
me?” 

In  the  outer  hall  there  was  swift  chatter 
and  shine  of  bright  eyes,  as  the  three  girls 
fell  upon  each  other  with  kisses  hidden  in  the 
depths  of  their  bonnets,  while  the  youths 
looked  enviously  on. 

“An  I  were  a  bonnet,  my  lord,”  said  Harry 
Corton  wistfully,  “I’d  give  my  hope  of  hea¬ 
ven.” 

“A  worthless  wager,  Harry,”  flashed  Penel¬ 
ope.  “Why  not  stake  your  snuff-box? 
’twould  be  in  better  taste.” 

“And  you  were  a  man,  Pen,”  came  back 
Mr.  Corton,  swiftly,  “I’d  call  you  out  for 
that.  Think  you  I  am  a  heathen?” 

The  gay  party  went  into  the  large  room  be¬ 
yond  the  hall,  where  the  guests  of  the  gover- 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


187 


nor’s  family  were  wont  to  gather,  and  soon 
the  rafters  rang  with  youthful  laughter.  A 
negress  brought  them  ale  and  little  sugared 
cakes,  and  they  chattered  of  all  the  things  that 
youth  finds  vitally  important ;  the  coming  rout 
of  Mistress  Cartwright’s,  the  probable  arrival 
of  the  good  ship  Golden  Hope  with  merchan¬ 
dise,  the  late  decree  of  fashion  that  had  tabooed 
the  patch  upon  the  chin  and  set  it  high  on  the 
cheek  instead. 

Presently  the  Governor  came  in,  along  with 
the  big  blond  Hessian,  Herr  von  Kneibling, 
and  straightway  Euphenie  La  Porte  had  eyes 
for  none  other,  making  room  for  him  beside 
her  upon  the  divan  where  she  sat,  and  smiling 
up  at  him  with  her  captivating  air. 

The  windows  were  open,  for  though  the 
summer  was  fast  giving  way  to  autumn,  there 
was  still  a  purple  warmth  to  the  atmos¬ 
phere  and  a  golden  haze  rested  upon  the  for¬ 
ests. 

Lord  Lester,  looking  idly  out,  could  scarce 
keep  his  thoughts  from  the  still  aisles  of  trees 


138  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


that  lined  the  Jamestown  pike,  of  the  sun  upon 
the  sill  of  the  Cock’s  Feather  Inn,  so  deep 
was  he  still  in  his  reflections  set  up  by  Penel¬ 
ope’s  beauty.  He  hardly  heard  the  gay  ba¬ 
dinage  about  him,  the  protests  of  Brithan  Ran¬ 
dolph  that  he  could  be  true  to  one  woman  and 
faithful  to  a  dozen  others.  But  presently, 
as  he  sat  thus  a  bit  detached,  he  became  con¬ 
scious  of  a  turmoil  some  distance  down  the 
street  which  passed  b}T  the  house  of  Mr.  Mer- 
win.  There  seemed  some  considerable  gather¬ 
ing  of  people  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  and  there 
was  a  hum  of  voices,  like  the  sustained  note  of 
hiving  bees.  He  put  out  his  fine  white  hand, 
drew  the  curtain  back  a  bit  the  better  to  look, 
and  saw  that  the  disturbance  was  approach¬ 
ing.  In  a  moment  more  the  sound  of  its  on¬ 
coming  stilled  the  merry  voices  within  the 
room  and  the  rest  fell  a-listening. 

“What  now?”  asked  His  Excellency,  com¬ 
ing  forward  with  his  round  stomach  leaning 
over  the  nobleman’s  shoulder  and  his  red  face 
at  the  opening.  “Who  comes?” 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


139 


At  this,  the  crowd,  which  was  a  small  one, 
surged  up  before  the  house  and  thrust  forward 
a  slim  slip  of  a  lad  with  pale  hair,  and  flaming 
eyes  of  grey  in  a  paler  face. 

He  stood  tall  amid  them  and  looked  de¬ 
fiantly  at  the  faces  in  the  window. 

Godwin  Praly,  a  roundsman,  and  a  bailiff, 
stepped  forward,  pulling  his  forelock.  He 
had  come  not  so  long  from  a  game-keeper’s 
lodge  in  England  and  brought  his  manners 
with  him. 

“This  youth,”  he  said,  pompously,  after  due 
recognizance  of  His  Excellency,  “  ’as  spoke 
traitorously  ’hin  th’  h’open  street,  yer  H’ex- 
cellency,  saying  h’as  ’ow  th’  Colonies  are  a 
law  to  themselves  an’  must  ’ave  their  h’own 
gover’ment  an’  freedom!  ’Tis  not  th’  first 
time,  h’either,  an’  so  h’l  took  ’im  in  custody  to 
wait  your  pleasure.” 

Governor  Dunmore’s  face  became  suddenly 
darker.  He  looked  hard  at  the  youth,  with 
his  hands  upon  the  sill  of  the  window,  and  for 
a  moment  was  silent. 


140  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“A  traitor,  eh?”  he  said  slowly.  “Taken  in 
the  act  of  seditious  speech!  I  have  heard  of 
‘ — such.” 

A  silence  fell,  and  all  the  gaiety  was 
quenched  within,  as  if  a  cloud  had  passed 
across  the  sun. 

For  a  long  time  he  stood  so,  his  hands  grow¬ 
ing  red  and  then  purple  as  they  pressed  upon 
the  sill.  It  seemed  he  struggled  with  some 
tenet  of  his  nature  which  was  loath  to  give 
under.  None  spoke,  and  the  silence  became 
strained.  Then  there  was  a  movement  be¬ 
hind,  and  that  blond  emissary  from  overseas, 
whose  voice  was  ever  for  thumbs-down,  pushed 
forward  to  the  Governor’s  side. 

“The  time — the  place — the  man,  mine 
friend,”  he  said  clearly,  “one  bold  stroke  now 
may  kill  sedition  and  treason.  I  suggest  that 
you  make  it — now!” 

The  Governor  roused  himself.  The  blank 
look  of  indecision  and  turmoil  was  on  his 
purple  face. 

“But  how?”  he  asked. 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


141 


Instantly  Herr  von  Kneibling  changed. 
His  thick  nostrils  dilated.  His  small  pale 
eyes  grew  smaller  still  with  a  look  of  excite¬ 
ment  and  pleasure. 

“A  horse!”  he  said  quickly;  “a  rope!  Drag 
the  rebel  through  the  streets  of  the  town,  that 
all  traitors  to  the  Crown  may  see  how  it  deals 
with  disloyalty!  Virginia  needs  strong  hands 
— strong  measures.” 

His  Excellency  struck  a  fist  on  the  window 
sill. 

“Done!”  he  cried. 

Turning,  he  called  for  a  servant  and  gave  a 
quick  order. 

In  the  stir  that  followed  there  was  a  gasp 
from  the  little  French  maid,  Euphenie,  and 
she  looked  with  startled  eyes  at  von  Kneib¬ 
ling. 

She  put  a  timid  hand  upon  his  great  arm,  at 
which  he  bent  to  her  instantly. 

“Surely,”  she  whispered,  “surely  you  jest, 
sir?  You  cannot  mean  it?” 

“Mean  it?”  he  laughed,  tossing  up  his  hand- 


142  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

some  head.  “Yes — and  worse!  This  is  no 
time  for  softness.  Why  in  a  little  while  trea¬ 
son  will  be  sweeping  the  Colonies!  Treason 
can  be  only  wiped  out  in  blood!” 

At  that  cold  ruthlessness  Euphenie  shrank 
back  as  if  she  had  beheld  a  monster,  and 
groped  for  the  hand  of  her  bosom  friend, 
Sheila  Lovelace,  who  stood  near,  and  whose 
breast  was  rising  and  falling  with  long 
breaths. 

“I — cannot — believe!”  gasped  Euphenie. 
“Sheila — will  they  do  this  horror?” 

“Hush,”  said  Sheila.  “Wait.” 

A  negro  came  running  from  the  stables 
holding  by  the  halter  rope  a  fine  black 
gelding,  wild  and  ramping,  excited  by  the 
throng. 

In  less  time  than  seemed  possible,  the  ac¬ 
cused  lad  was  tied  and  trussed,  his  feet  bound 
together  and  fastened  to  the  animal’s  tail. 

“Who’ll  ride?”  cried  the  Governor.  “We’ll 
teach  these  traitors!” 

“I  will — gladly,”  offered  von  Kneibling, 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


143 


pushing  through,  and  vaulting  to  the  geld¬ 
ing’s  hack  without  a  touch  of  hand — a  pretty 
piece  of  horsemanship. 

“Clear  the  way!”  he  cried,  gathered  the 
rope,  struck  his  mount,  and  instantly  was 
away  down  the  dusty  street,  the  unspeakable 
bundle  bouncing  at  the  horse’s  heels.  A 
great  smother  of  dust  arose,  then  cleared,  and 
the  group  stood  transfixed,  watching.  The 
German  was  a  master  horseman,  for  he  con¬ 
trolled  the  wild  young  animal  with  the  halter 
rope  alone,  terrified  though  it  was. 

The  Governor’s  face  was  twitching  with  un¬ 
known  emotions.  Those  of  the  group  were 
white — for  this  was  an  unprecedented  and  un¬ 
pardonable  thing.  For  once  in  his  life  Lord 
Dunmore  had  forgotten  the  ladies  present. 

“Rebels!”  he  muttered.  “Traitors!” 

A  distance  down  the  road  the  German 
turned  and  came  thundering  back.  Harry 
Corton  wet  his  lips. 

“Do  you  mean — death — sir?”  he  asked  diffi¬ 
dently.  But  the  Governor  did  not  hear  him. 


144  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Then  it  was  that  Sheila  Lovelace  did  a  brave 
thing.  She  loosed  Euphenie’s  clinging  hand 
and  caught  His  Excellency’s  arm  in  a  strong 
grip. 

“Sir!”  she  cried — “Stop  him!  A  lesson  is 
a  lesson — but  this  is  murder!” 

Out  of  the  whirling  dust  they  could  see  von 
Kneibling’s  fair  face  as  he  neared,  with  the 
hair  blowing  back,  the  full  lips  parted  in  a 
smile. 

“God!”  said  Lord  Lester,  stirred  from  his 
habitual  lethargy,  his  hands  closing  and  open¬ 
ing. 

At  that  sympathetic  groan  he  felt  a  touch 
upon  his  shoulder  and  turned  his  head.  The 
softly  powdered  hair  of  Penelope  brushed  his 
cheek,  for  her  face  was  hidden  against  his  coat, 
and  she  was  shaking  as  with  a  chill.  He 
passed  an  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  back, 
turning  her  inward  at  the  door. 

“Enough!”  cried  Rrithan  Randolph  sharply. 
“This  is  not  war  as  yet,  sir!  We  are  Vir — ” 

He  did  not  finish  his  words,  for  there  came 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


145 


upon  the  air  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle. 

They  saw  the  rider’s  face  lift  with  the  up¬ 
ward  plunge  of  the  black  horse,  which  flung 
itself  high  in  its  stride  and  fell  sprawling, 
dead  as  a  stone. 

Displaying  his  wonderful  ability,  von 
Kneibling  sprang  clear  and  was  upon  his  feet 
instantly,  whirling  to  face  the  man  who  came 
riding  down  upon  him  from  the  fringe  of  trees 
that  marched  to  the  town’s  edge — a  man,  on 
a  big  roan  horse,  whose  face  was  white  with 
deadly  wrath,  whose  fringed  buckskins  flut¬ 
tered  at  knee  and  hip,  whose  rifle  was  at  his 
shoulder,  with  death  in  its  throat  for  the  first 
who  made  a  false  move! 

“Stand!”  cried  Patrick  Henry.  “Stand — 
and  cut  loose  that  boy!  I  give  you  two  min¬ 
utes — work !” 

Panting,  his  face  sobered  but  sneering,  the 
German  stooped  and  cut  the  bundle  from  the 
dead  horse.  It  was  a  pitiful  bundle,  covered 
with  blood  and  dust,  inert,  helpless,  its  young 
eyes  closed,  its  fair  head  drooping  idly.  That 


146  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


it  lived  at  all  was  only  evidenced  by  the  moan¬ 
ing  breath  that  came  from  the  parted  lips. 

Patrick  Henry’s  own  lips  were  shaking 
with  a  rage  beyond  control.  His  blue  eyes, 
cold  as  steel  and  narrow,  were  steady  and 
boring.  His  rifle  never  moved. 

“Bring  him!”  he  said  sharply.  “Pick  him 
up  carefully.  Carefully — you  swine!  If  you 
so  much  as  drag  a  foot,  I’ll  kill  you!” 

Yon  Kneibling,  his  eyes  shifting  over  the 
group  on  the  Governor’s  steps  for  sign  of  suc¬ 
cor,  did  as  he  was  told,  exactly.  He  was  a 
big  man  and  powerful,  and  he  lifted  the  strip¬ 
ling  like  a  sheaf  of  grain. 

He  carried  him  and  laid  him  across  Patrick 
Henry’s  saddle-bow,  the  woodsman  watching 
each  move  for  treachery.  It  was  there  in 
the  German’s  shifting  eyes,  his  calculating 
face.  But  a  knife  hung  on  the  other’s  belt 
and  the  hand  on  the  rifle’s  butt  hovered  to  the 
drop. 

Von  Kneibling  backed  away  toward  the  oth¬ 
ers.  The  muzzle  of  the  gun  traveled  with  his 


“I’LL  RIDE  AGAIN!” 


147 


every  step.  Then  the  man  in  the  saddle 
touched  the  roan  horse  with  his  heels  and  it, 
too,  backed  carefully,  step  by  step,  the  rifle 
finally  covering  the  whole  group,  men  and 
women. 

At  the  door’s  lintel  Penelope  Dunmore’s 
ashen  face  was  lifted  with  a  martial  look  that 
swept  across  the  heads  below  straight  to  that 
other. 

“Once  more,”  she  called  clearly  in  the 
straining  silence,  “I  have  beheld  a  man!” 

The  newcomer  turned  in  his  saddle  as  the 
roan  horse  swung  and  headed  slowly  toward 
the  sheltering  forest.  He  looked  back  along 
the  rifle’s  barrel,  promising  death  with  every 
step.  When  the  boles  of  the  trees  hid  him 
from  view  a  sigh  went  up  from  the  group, 
and  each  one  looked  at  his  neighbor  with  new 
eyes. 

On  the  top  step  Penelope  Dunmore  looked 
coldly  into  her  father’s  face. 

“I  am  disgraced,”  she  said,  “and  saddened, 


sir. 


14B  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


She  held  out  her  hand  to  Lord  Lester,  who 
took  it  gently  and  led  her  in. 

Euphenie  La  Porte  drew  her  wide-flounced 
skirt  aside  as  von  Kneibling  came  near,  and 
there  was  a  hard  set  to  her  cupid’s  mouth; 
while  Sheila  Lovelace  left  the  Governor’s 
house  without  the  courtesy  of  a  farewell — 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

Harry  Gorton  accompanied  her  in  painful 
silence,  while  Brithan  followed  with  Euphenie 
after  a  stiff  and  formal  leave-taking. 

The  episode  marked  an  epoch  in  the  happy 
life  of  the  gay  company,  which  was  never  to 
be  the  same  again. 

When  they  were  alone  Herr  von  Kneibling, 
wiping  the  sweat  from  his  face,  regarded  the 
Governor  with  chagrin. 

“The  arch-rebel!”  he  said  bitterly — “and 
away  he  gets!  The  blackest  traitor  in  the 
Colonies!  Him  we  must  capture  or  all  hell 
will  be  loose  in  Virginia  soon.  And  I  shall 
be  glad  to  ride  again,  Your  Excellency — 
more  than  glad.” 


YOUNG  HEARTS 


J) 


CHAPTER  VIII 


YOUNG  HEARTS 

PATRICK  HENRY’S  good  roan  horse 
was  lean  and  hard.  The  turnpikes  knew  its 
hurrying  hoofs  by  night,  and  by  day  it 
threaded  the  deeper  byways  of  the  forest. 
Whenever  there  might  be  a  patriot  to 
strengthen,  a  sleeping  one  to  waken,  a  smoul¬ 
dering  heart  to  fan  to  flame,  there  went  the 
man  in  his  old  buckskins,  and  there  went  the 
passionate  fire  of  his  speech.  Now  and  again 
he  passed  the  Cock’s  Feather  Inn,  but  he  gave 
it  no  glance,  never  turned  his  head  that  way; 
though  once  Doxey  Fairweather  stood  by  the 
open  door,  a  deep  flush  staining  her  cheeks,  a 
light  glowing  in  her  eyes. 

In  the  heart  of  the  maid  a-many  things 
were  struggling. 

Loyalty  burned  like  a  sacred  flame  and 

151 


152  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


courage  was  high  in  her,  and  the  man  who  had 
played  her  “The  Rose  and  Thorn”  was  black 
in  her  eyes  with  treason.  Therefore  she  set 
her  lips  and  dropped  her  glance,  and  would 
not  listen  to  the  memory  of  that  enchanted 
night  in  spring. 

But  she  would  not  listen,  either,  when  young 
Lord  Lester,  fair  and  handsome,  in  his  laces 
and  broidered  clothes,  leaned  from  his  saddle 
at  her  father’s  door  and  spoke  to  her  of  love. 
The  yearning  in  his  heart  spoke  in  his 
voice  and  he  offered  her  again  his  name  in 
wedlock. 

“Nay,”  said  Doxey  softly,  “I  like  not  to 
deny  you,  my  lord,  since  I  know  well  the  honor 
which  you  do  me.  But  would  you  have  a 
friend  for  wife,  in  place  of  lover?” 

Lord  Lester  groaned  and  raised  a  hand  to 
drop  it  hopelessly,  for  the  girl’s  clear  eyes 
spoke  truth. 

“There  is  perhaps  another?”  he  asked. 

“No,”  she  answered,  “no  other.” 

“I  had  thought,  perhaps  of — the  woodsman, 


YOUNG  HEARTS  153 

Mistress,  who  sat  here  in  your  door  that 
night — ” 

“Sir!”  cried  Doxey  Fairweather,  while  the 
deep  flush  rose  in  her  face  again,  “you  con¬ 
nect  me  with  a  traitor V* 

“Forgive  me.  But  the  man  is  a  force.  All 
loyal  Virginia  has  begun  to  fear  him,  and  he 
ever  seems  to  arrive  at  the  proper  time.” 

“There  is  no  proper  time  for  such  at  the 
Cock’s  Feather  Inn,”  she  answered  coldly. 
“We  here  are  loyal  to  our  King.” 

And  so  it  was,  while  the  golden  year  was 
slipping  to  its  end,  the  dark  cloud  gathered 
more  dismally  day  by  day  over  the  little  group 
of  friends  who  make  this  story. 

There  were  no  more  gay  parties  at  the  Gov¬ 
ernor’s  house,  but  rather  many  gatherings  of 
black-browed  men  who  talked  endlessly  be¬ 
hind  closed  doors. 

Penelope  worked  her  samplers  in  sweet 
gravity.  She  missed  unspeakably  her  two 
friends,  Sheila  Lovelace  and  Euphenie  La 
Porte,  who  sent  her  long  girlish  letters  to  the 


154  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


effect  that  they  loved  her  still,  but  that,  since 
they  had  both  turned  Whig,  they  could  not 
honorably  darken  her  father’s  door. 

Terrible  things  were  being  whispered — of 
gatherings  of  the  traitors  at  Richmond,  and 
of  their  scattering  by  the  soldiery  as  rioters 
and  agitators;  of  Mr.  Washington  and  Mr. 
Jefferson  being  in  the  midst  of  these,  and  of 
the  bitter  disappointment  of  those  loyalists 
who  had  been  their  friends. 

“I  cannot  believe,”  said  Mr.  Merwin,  “that 
our  young  men  are  in  their  right  minds.  I 
pray  they  may  yet  be  proven  insane,  for  then 
we  could  forgive  them.  A  sickness — yes ! 
Treason — never !” 

But  as  the  days  passed  the  gravity  deepened 
everywhere. 

“Your  Excellency,”  cried  Mr.  Randolph 
once,  “what  we  had  thought  child’s  play  is 
man’s  work  now!  The  rebels  are  drilling  in 
the  streets  of  Richmond!” 

And  so  they  were. 

Secession  seethed.  The  soldiery  and  the 


YOUNG  HEARTS 


155 


paid  minions  of  King  George  had  more  than 
they  could  do,  and  the  word  rioters  had  given 
place  to  enemies. 

Warfare  seemed  imminent,  though  the 
loyalists  could  not  yet  believe. 

Everywhere  warnings  and  appeals  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  King’s  name,  but  seemed  for 
once  to  have  lost  their  potency. 

Boston  and  Philadelphia  were  gathering 
arms  and  drilling,  too. 

The  country  was  smouldering,  needing  but 
a  touch  to  fire  it  into  open  rebellion.  And  in 
the  minds  of  a  few  brave  men  this  touch,  this 
torch,  was  slowly  taking  form.  Mr.  Wash¬ 
ington,  Air.  Jefferson,  Mr.  Hancock,  Mr. 
Francis  Lee,  Air.  Walton  from  Georgia,  and 
a  dozen  others  met  and  talked  earnestly. 
There  was  danger  ahead,  and  death  loomed 
from  the  unknown  future,  but  these  gallant 
hearts  were  stout  and  cahn.  These  clear  and 
honest  eyes  looked  down  the  reaches  to  pos¬ 
terity  and  saw  there — glory!  And  so  they 
talked  and  decided — and  the  Colonies  waited 


156  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


in  the  balance  that  was  beginning  to  swing. 

On  a  gorgeous  day  in  early  autumn  Penel¬ 
ope  Dunmore  sat  weaving  a  lace  upon  a 
frame  in  the  sun-flecked  garden  behind  her 
father’s  house.  The  great  beauty  of  her  face 
was  somewhat  thinned,  for  secret  trouble  ate 
her.  The  girl  grieved  unceasingly  for  her 
young  mates,  denied  her  by  the  stern  exigen¬ 
cies  of  the  time,  and  the  flying  rumors  troubled 
her.  She  was,  and  had  ever  been,  loyal  to 
her  liege,  as  was  her  father  and  all  his  house, 
but  the  feeling  in  her  was  one  of  ordered 
quiet,  of  settled  fact,  of  commonplace — like 
the  sunlight  or  the  rain.  This  fire  of  parti¬ 
sanship,  which  ran  like  a  tongue  of  flame 
among  the  Colonies,  was  astonishing  to  her  in 
its  ferocity — a  ferocity  that  could  make  sane 
men  drag  a  boy  alive  at  a  horse’s  heels,  turn 
father  against  son,  brother  against  brother. 

She  thought  long  thoughts  as  she  plied  her 
delicate  threads,  while  the  stupendous  import 
of  the  descending  shadows  appalled  her. 

She  wondered  if  those  who  were  beginning 


YOUNG  HEARTS 


157 


to  stand  out  upon  its  sombre  background  like 
points  of  light — namely,  Mr.  Washington, 
Mr.  Jefferson,  and  all  those  grave  men  with 
them — could  be  as  black  as  they  were  painted. 
They  were  gentlemen  all,  and  of  irreproach¬ 
able  character.  It  put  a  vague  and  piteous 
ache  in  her  heart  to  think  of  them  as  traitors 
— an  awful  word!  Yet  that  was  what  she 
heard  on  every  side. 

And  that  outstanding  and  romantic  figure 
— the  man  in  the  worn  buckskins,  whose  deep 
eyes  seemed  to  see  visions,  and  whose  silver 
tongue  was  already  the  most  feared  force  in 
the  land — what  of  him?  This  man  who 
fought  for  innocence,  who  dared  to  ride  into 
the  Governor’s  dooryard  and  demand  justice 
at  the  rifle’s  mouth — could  it  be  possible  he 
was  as  vile  as  they  pictured  him? 

An  unconscious  sigh  lifted  the  filmy  ker¬ 
chief  on  her  maiden  breast  and  she  bent  her 
brown  head  over  her  frame.  Patience  Con- 
well,  attending  some  small  work  of  tidying  the 
rustic  chairs  and  table  that  she  might  be  near 


158  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


her  mistress,  turned  adoring  eyes  that  way. 

“You  are  sad,  Mistress?”  she  asked  anx¬ 
iously,  with  that  boldness  which  had  come  with 
the  open  favor  of  the  gentlewoman  to  whom 
she  belonged. 

Penelope  raised  her  hazel  eyes  and  looked 
at  her. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “I  think  I  am.  A  sadness 
runs  through  the  days  like  a  thread  in  tapes¬ 
try — appearing,  lost,  and  lost  again,  but  ever 
there.  I  grieve  for  what  is  yet  to  come.” 

The  lass  from  Lancashire  came  and  stood 
across  the  table,  the  sunlight  falling,  through 
the  empty  grape-vines,  upon  her  handsome 
head. 

“I  also,”  she  said,  “  I  fear  me  at  nights  and 
seem  to  see  great  things  a-borning  in  the  fu¬ 
ture.  But  oh!  they  are  fine  things,  Mistress! 
Wondrous,  proud  things,  that  have  to  do  with 
blood  and  fire  and  the  souls  of  men!  Proud, 
proud  things!” 

Penelope’s  lips  fell  a  bit  apart  and  her  eyes 
became  round  with  wonder. 


YOUNG  HEARTS 


159 


“Why,  Patience!”  she  said,  aghast,  “you 
speak  as  with  a  prophecy!” 

But  at  that  moment  a  servant  brought  Lord 
Lester  to  the  garden  and  the  girl  went  quietly 
away. 

The  young  man  was  beginning  to  come  more 
and  more  often  to  the  sunny  garden  behind 
the  long  log  house.  He  seemed  to  find  in  its 
cool-aired  peace  a  comfort  and  a  solace  for 
the  melancholy  that  was  ever  with  him.  Now 
he  dropped  his  long  length  into  a  chintz- 
covered  chair  and  watched  Penelope’s  white 
fingers,  which  took  up  their  light  task  after 
greeting  him.  They  were  lovely  fingers,  long 
and  slim  and  satin-soft,  for  they  toiled  not, 
neither  did  they  spin.  And  they  were  capable 
of  enchanting  a  man’s  eyes — as  they  did  more 
than  once. 

Now  the  young  nobleman  sighed  and  let  his 
blue  glance  rest  upon  them  for  so  long  in 
silence  that  the  girl  rallied  him  upon  his  dolor. 

“What  troubles  you,  my  lord?”  she  asked. 
“Are  you,  too,  seeing  visions — the  dark  visions 


160  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


that  sadden  the  rest  of  us?  My  serving-maid 
hath  turned  prophetess  and  I  hardly  know  my 
own  soul  when  I  look  into  it.” 

“Nay,  Mistress  Pen,”  he  answered,  “I  bor¬ 
row  no  trouble  there,  for  already  I  have  set¬ 
tled  in  my  own  mind  where  I  shall  be  when  the 
storm  breaks.  I  give  it  no  further  thought. 
But  a  sadness  of  which  I  do  not  speak,”  he 
finished,  with  simple  dignity,  “eats  at  my 
heart,  my  friend.” 

The  girl  stopped  her  threading  and  re¬ 
garded  him  with  quick  sympathy. 

“Why,  my  lord!”  she  said,  “I  had  not 
dreamed  that  you  suffered  from  a  love!  It 
cannot  be  Sheila  nor  any  of  the  Carroll  girls, 
neither  that  madcap,  Phenie  La  Porte?” 

“None.  But  only  a  simple  maiden  of  the 
wilderness,  whose  straight  young  mind  cannot 
be  won  by  gold  nor  station — and  for  whose 
sake  I  would  gladly  give  my  all.” 

He  sighed  and  looked  away,  and  Penelope 
laid  her  soft  hand  gently  upon  his,  which  were 
clasped  and  hanging  between  his  satin-cov- 


YOUNG  HEARTS 


161 


ered  knees  where  golden  buckles  sparkled. 

“I  am  so  sorry,”  she  said. 

Lord  Lester  held  the  hand  and  folded  it  in 
both  his  own. 

“Ah  well,”  he  said,  smiling,  “let  us  talk  of 
other  things.  The  slow  waters  of  the  James 
are  lovely  now  with  the  breath  of  fall  upon 
their  silver  surface.  Would  you  care  to  ride 
there  some  afternoon?  I  know  a  man  who 
hath  a  tidy  boat,  cushioned  and  light  upon  its 
little  keel.  It  would  greatly  pleasure  me  to 
row  you,  an  you  can  find  the  time  and  the  de¬ 
sire  to  go.” 

“Gladly!  The  parties  are  no  more  and 
there  is  so  little  of  joyousness  left.  I’ll  wear 
my  purple  poplin  and  we’ll  forget  the  shad¬ 
ows  that  trouble  us  both,  my  lord,  for  a  little 
space.” 

She  rose  with  him  and  passed  to  the  gate¬ 
way  that  gave  upon  the  street.  As  she  stood 
in  its  unbarred  opening,  a  picture  in  her  bro¬ 
cade  gown,  there  came,  riding  in  from  the 
turnpike,  a  young  woman  on  a  sedate  white 


162  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


horse.  Her  long  skirt  swept  down  to  the  ani¬ 
mal’s  decrepit  knees,  her  spirited  face  was 
glowing  in  the  rim  of  her  bonnet,  pushed  a  bit 
back  upon  her  dusky  head. 

At  the  tautening  of  the  young  man’s  form 
beside  her- — the  instinctive  betrayal — Penel¬ 
ope  knew  instantly  that  she  beheld  the  “sim¬ 
ple  maiden  of  the  wilderness.” 

And  it  was  none  other  than  Doxey  Fair- 
weather,  come  to  the  town  on  some  errand  of 
her  father’s  business.  At  Lord  Lester’s  quick 
salute  she  bowed  from  her  side-saddle  and 
flashed  him  a  smile. 

Penelope  was  not  to  forget  that  face  with 
its  fire  and  flame,  for  she  was  to  see  it  once 
in  candle-light  when  a  man’s  life  hung  in  the 
balance  and  her  own  heart  faltered  in  her 
breast. 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT 


CHAPTER  IX 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT 

OF  the  dreary  winter  that  soon  shut  down 
upon  the  land  the  less  said  the  better.  Al¬ 
most  all  social  life  was  dead.  The  towns  were 
sharply  split  in  two.  Suspicion  sat  upon 
every  shoulder  and  coldness  covered  the  vol¬ 
canic  fires  that  slept  beneath  the  surface. 

And  so  we  come,  along  with  those  who  love 
in  this  little  handful  of  people,  to  the  early 
months  of  a  year  that  was  to  be  momentous 
above  all  other  years  since  that  one  when  two 
weary  travelers  slept  in  a  wayside  stable  over 
whose  humble  roof  a  great  star  came  and 
stood.  In  that  other  year,  so  long  ago,  the 
Hope  of  the  World  was  born.  In  this  one 
was  to  be  born  its  Liberty. 

The  land  bent  under  a  weeping  sky,  for 
there  was  much  rain. 


165 


166  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


The  Patriots,  for  such  they  called  them¬ 
selves,  were  organized.  They  were  drilled  and 
armed  and — waiting.  The  powder  was  laid, 
needing  but  the  torch. 

The  crux  of  the  matter  was  reached,  the 
whole  plan  of  rebellion  formed,  the  structure 
all  but  finished.  It  needed  but  the  last  touch 
of  fire  to  weld  it  solidly  together,  to  make  of 
the  seething  mass  of  wronged  and  indignant 
Colonists  a  force  that  would  go  smashing 
forth  to  fight  for  liberty  and  the  future. 

And  this  last  moment  was  already  winging 
swift  toward  them  in  Richmond,  where  such 
men  as  Mr.  Jefferson  and  Mr.  Lee  were  work¬ 
ing  earnestly  toward  the  culmination.  This 
culmination  was  a  gigantic  meeting  to  be  held 
openly  in  utter  defiance  of  the  King’s  orders, 
and  word  of  which  was  running  through  the 
country  like  little  tongues  of  flame. 

Just  when  it  would  be  called  was  a  matter 
which  troubled  the  government,  and  which  His 
Excellency  would  have  given  much  to  know. 

“I  tell  you  the  cord  of  royal  patience  is 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT  167 


strained,  gentlemen !”  said  Governor  Dun- 
more.  “The  rebels  have  gone  too  far!  It 
will  call  for  war  an  they  do  not  retrench,  and 
that  right  hurriedly.  His  Majesty’s  com¬ 
mands  are  stern,  giving  full  right  of  military 
force  to  be  applied.  The  devil’s  scum  know 
that  King  George  is  harried  at  home  with  his 
own  political  troubles,  else  they  would  not  dare 
to  beard  the  lion  thus.” 

“Did  I  not  this  thing  foretell,  your  Ex¬ 
cellency,  long  back,  when  I  advised  the  cap¬ 
ture  of  that  threadbare  firebrand  who  hath  rid¬ 
den  the  countryside  like  a  veritable  Tam 
o’Shanter,  with  the  witch  of  treason  at  his 
horse’s  tail?”  asked  von  Kneibling,  sharply. 

“Aye,”  returned  His  Excellency,  “but  I 
dared  not  seize  him  for  ’twould  have  fired  the 
fabric  then;  and  God  knows  we  were  not 
ready.  Neither  are  we  now.  For  though 
our  soldiery  are  eager  for  battle-smoke,  yet 
they  are  all  too  few,  and  His  Majesty  hath 
not  as  yet  sent  over  the  new  men  I  have  been 
asking  for  with  every  ship.” 


168  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“Strong  measures,  your  Excellency,”  re¬ 
turned  the  German,  “are  the  right  ones  al¬ 
ways.  This  man  hath  been  abroad  too  long 
already.” 

“If  I  might  make  so  bold,  sir,”  said  the 
elder  Mr.  Randolph,  “I  believe  our  friend 
speaks  the  truth.  This  eager-eyed  woods¬ 
man  has  done  more  to  stir  up  this  hornet’s 
nest  than  any  other  in  Virginia.  Why,  his 
fiery  words  have  traveled  north  and  south  and 
west  until  they  have  become  catch -words  for 
the  rebels,  so  I  hear  on  good  authority.” 

And  His  Excellency  gazed  out  the  window, 
frowning  at  the  memory  of  his  good  horse  shot 
in  the  dust  of  the  road,  himself  looking  down 
the  muzzle  of  a  traveling  gun. 

He  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  stout 
fingers,  and  a  grim  determination  crystallized 
within  him. 

“Gentlemen,”  he  said,  stirring,  “I  believe 
you  are  right.  W e  must  be  ready  now,  willy- 
nilly.  The  taking  of  this  man  will  ring  the 
bell,  I  feel  sure,  bring  down  upon  the  loyalists 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT  169 


nothing  less  than — war.  But — we  will  be 
ready.” 

“Goot!”  cried  von  Kneibling,  springing  to 
his  feet,  his  small  eyes  sparkling.  “And  I, 
too,  your  Excellency,  shall  be  ready — to  ride 
again.  And  this  time  there  shall  be  no  stop¬ 
ping!  I’ll  drag  him  to  death!” 

At  the  back  of  the  long  room  there  was  a 
scarce  perceptible  shadow  as  some  one  moved 
across  the  opening  of  a  door,  and  presently 
Patience  Conwell  joined  her  mistress  where 
she  sat  in  her  own  room  broidering,  as  was  her 
wont.  At  the  look  on  the  girl’s  face  Penel¬ 
ope  started  and  held  her  needle  still. 

“What  ghost  have  you  seen,  Patience?”  she 
asked.  “Your  eyes  are  wide  as  saucers  and 
I  do  avow  your  cheeks  have  lost  their  color!” 

“Mistress,”  said  Patience,  straightly,  “I 
know  not  how  your  heart  lies  in  this  matter  of 
the  rebellion,  but  in  the  case  of  a  man — one 
man,  Mistress,  that  we  both  know  for  good 
and  gallant — it  can  but  ache  with  mine  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  overheard  but  now  a  plot  to 


170  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


drag  him  at  a  horse’s  heels,  with  von  Knei- 
bling  in  the  saddle — and  there  is  no  stopping 
planned!  To  drag  him  to  his  death!3' 

For  a  long  moment  Penelope  stared  at  her 
serving-maid  as  one  who  does  not  credit  his 
ears.  Then: 

“This  man — Patience,”  she  said,  almost 
whispering — “this — man — ?” 

“Is  Patrick  Henry,  the  blue-eved  knight 
who  fights  for  the  helpless,  our  gallant  friend, 
Sir  Buckskins.  And  I  for  one,”  she  finished, 
with  a  flash  of  the  spirit  which  had  ever  lain 
dormant  in  her  face,  “would  give  my  life  to 
save  him,  since  he  once  saved  more  than  life 
for  me.” 

But  Penelope  Dunmore  put  up  a  small  hand 
and  rubbed  her  white  throat,  where  the  breath 
seemed  all  but  stopping. 

“  ’Tis  that  fiend,  von  Kneibling,  has  plotted 
this,”  she  said,  “and  my  father  listens — as  do 
all  the  rest.  Doth  any  know  you  overheard?” 

“None.” 

“Then,”  said  Mistress  Penelope,  decidedly, 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT  171 


“you  may  have  duties  near  the  council-room 
whenever  you  deem  it  worth  while — and  tell 
me  all  you  learn.” 

Patience  Conwell  bent  quickly  and  kissed 
the  shoulder  under  the  white  kerchief. 

“Hearts,”  she  said,  “are  sometimes  more 
cunning  than  heads,  and  they  belong  to  women. 
Sir  Buckskins  hath  two  friends  at  court,  hath 
he  not,  my  Mistress?” 

“Aye,”  answered  Penelope,  as  she  bent  to 
her  broideries  once  more. 

It  was  not  so  long  after  that  when  Patrick 
Henry,  riding  far  from  Jamestown,  received 
by  messenger  a  little  piece  of  paper,  of  a  fine 
and  delicate  texture,  such  as  came  from  over¬ 
seas  for  use  among  the  beaux  and  belles  of 
Virginia.  It  was  neatly  shut  and  sealed  with 
good  red  wax,  and  there  was  in  the  seal  the 
print  of  a  woman’s  thumb — a  tiny  thumb, 
shapely  and  fine-grained.  The  thing  breathed 
of  the  aristocracy  in  every  essential.  Inside  it 
bore,  in  prim,  tall  writing,  an  earnest,  friendly 
warning,  and  it  was  not  signed,  save  for  the 


172  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


small  thumb-print  again,  dipped  this  time 
lightly  in  the  ink. 

“Our  friend,”  it  said,  “we  do  earnestly  ad¬ 
vise  that  you  come  not  near  to  Jamestown,  and 
that  you  do  take  all  precaution  to  guard  your 
body  from  attack,  for  there  are  those  in  high 
places  who  would  take  and  hold  you — and  do 
worse  than  that — to  still  your  fiery  tongue.” 

On  that  wind-blown  day  the  woodsman  sat 
long  in  his  saddle,  holding  the  little  missive, 
and  stared  hard  at  the  leafless  forest.  He 
would  fain  have  questioned  the  messenger,  but 
he,  a  serving-man  of  unfamiliar  face,  had  gone 
away  in  haste  after  fulfilling  this  errand.  So 
Patrick  Henry  could  but  study  the  prim  script 
and  wonder,  though  he  took  its  warning  seri¬ 
ously  and  bestowed  the  paper  in  his  breast  for 
safe-keeping. 

Many  times,  in  the  days  that  followed,  he 
wondered  if  perchance  Doxey  F airweather,  re¬ 
lenting,  had  sent  it  to  him,  but  each  time  could 
not  believe.  There  was  too  much  against  such 
belief.  The  girl’s  firm  antagonism  toward 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT  173 


him,  for  one  thing;  the  missive’s  touch  of  fine¬ 
ness,  its  look  of  opulence,  for  another. 

But  soon  events  began  to  move  swiftly  and 
he  forgot  the  matter,  in  his  eagerness.  Word 
of  the  vital  meeting  to  be  held  at  Richmond 
came  to  him  far  up  along  the  James,  and  he 
came  hurrying  back  as  fast  as  his  good  roan 
horse  could  bring  him,  for  his  friends  had  set¬ 
tled  on  a  date  at  last.  This  would  be  a  preg¬ 
nant  time,  a  day  of  white  faces  and  tense 
nerves,  and  the  humble  patriot  felt  in  his  se¬ 
cret  soul  a  prescience  of  its  need  of  him — as 
if  the  strong  young  country,  heaving  in  its 
travail,  sent  out  to  him  a  tragic  and  holy  call 
for  help. 

As  he  rode  down  the  reaches  of  the  dripping 
land  that  wet  and  early  spring,  his  lean  face 
was  rapt  with  its  high  visions.  For  once  he 
was  deaf  to  bird-call  and  to  river-voice. 

He  traveled  carefully,  always  mindful  of 
that  warning  hidden  in  his  breast,  for  he  knew 
the  timbre  of  those  who  would  “take  and  hold 
him.” 


174  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


A  little  later  he  met  in  secret,  in  the  heart  of 
Jamestown,  Mr.  Washington,  Mr.  Jefferson, 
and  many  others,  all  gathered  behind  drawn 
blinds,  around  dimly-lighted  tables,  where  his¬ 
tory  was  being  made  by  their  earnest  talk. 

He  saw  new  faces,  one  of  these  being  that 
of  Harry  C orton,  who  sat  with  young  Tim 
Lovelace.  Both  of  these  young  men  were 
pale  with  the  magnitude  of  the  great  plans 
they  were  hearing  made. 

“  ’Tis  good  to  see  you,  Patrick,”  said  Mr. 
Jefferson,  holding  his  hand  affectionately 
upon  their  greeting.  “I  had  feared  we  might 
not  find  you  in  your  wide  activities,  and  God 
knows  we  shall  have  need  of  you  at  Rich¬ 
mond.” 

“I  was  two  hundred  miles  away,”  said 
Henry,  “and  Roanie  has  had  hard  going  for 
many  weeks,  but  we  made  it  through  as 
though  we  rode  for  gold — as  indeed  we  did — 
and  more  than  gold!” 

Then  the  man,  still  clad  in  his  forest  garb, 
tall  and  spare  and  eager,  was  drawTn  forward 


FAIR  FRIENDS  AT  COURT  175 


to  the  circle  under  the  candles’  flare,  listening 
as  if  his  life  hung  on  every  word. 

Ah!  what  plans  they  were,  a-borning  there 
in  that  humble  room! 

What  Torch  of  the  World  leaned  in  those 
steady  hands  toward  the  deathless  light  of 
Liberty  to  catch  its  fire! 

It  was  near  dawn  when  the  candles  were 
snuffed  and  those  men  filed  out  under  the  stars 
to  part  in  silence  with  a  grip  of  hands  and 
a  Godspeed.  Harry  Corton  and  Timothy 
Lovelace  went  away  together,  and  Mr.  Jeffer¬ 
son  walked  with  Patrick  Henry  to  the  town’s 
edge,  to  see  him  mount  and  ride  away  into  the 
still  shadows. 

“Four  more  days,”  he  whispered,  as  they 
shook  hands  at  parting,  “and  if  ever  you  be¬ 
sought  your  Maker,  Patrick,  do  so  now  upon 
your  bended  knees,  that  you  may  speak  that 
day  with  tongues  of  men  and  angels,  for  if 
ever  the  Cause  will  need  you  in  this  world  it 
will  be  then.” 

“Amen!”  said  Patrick  Henry,  softly. 


WHEN  LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN 


CHAPTER  X 


WHEN  LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN 

HERR  VON  KNEIBLING,  stamping  in 
from  the  wet  outside,  shook  his  heavy  should¬ 
ers  and  muttered  an  imprecation  as  he  ordered 
fire  in  a  private  room  and  ale  for  six,  of  Master 
F  airweather. 

Of  late  the  Cock's  Feather  Inn  had  been  a 
favorite  meeting  place  for  staunch  loyalists, 
since  all  knew  the  passionate  partisanship  of 
Master  Fairweather  and  his  daughter.  Plans 
might  be  made  there  with  no  fear  of  a  leakage 
— which,  alas!  seemed  not  the  case  with  His 
Excellency’s  own  household — and  the  Inn  it¬ 
self  was  so  far  in  the  forest  that  strangers 
were  rare  at  this  time  of  the  year. 

John  Fairweather  bustled  about  attending 

his  duties,  and  soon  other  gentlemen  arrived 

out  of  the  mist  of  rain  to  foregather  in  the  in- 

179 


180  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


ner  room.  There  was  the  Governor  himself, 
and  Mr.  Merwin,  and  that  hot  champion  of 
His  Majesty,  Mr.  Bainridge,  along  with  sev¬ 
eral  others  whom  Doxey,  bringing  her  famous 
cakes,  did  not  recognize.  One  of  these,  an 
officer  by  his  uniform  and  smart  carriage,  fa¬ 
vored  the  girl  with  a  leer  and  a  wink,  and  as 
she  passed  attempted  to  chuck  her  under  the 
chin. 

“Sir,”  said  Doxey  sharply,  “until  I  so  com¬ 
port  as  to  give  you  leave,  your  hands  to  your¬ 
self!” 

At  which  the  officer  stared  and  von  Knei- 
bling  laughed  uproariously. 

Then  they  fell  to  low-voiced  talk  and  the 
girl,  frowning,  went  to  the  outer  room,  where 
she  looked  from  the  mullioned  window  to¬ 
ward  the  dripping  forest.  She  must  be  near 
to  wait  upon  them,  but  did  not  wish  to  linger. 
And  so,  half  dreaming,  after  the  fashion  of 
maids,  she  lost  the  import  of  the  voices,  hear¬ 
ing  only  the  low  hum. 

She  was  thinking  of  Lord  Lester,  so  hand- 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  181 


some  in  his  rich  apparel,  and  wondering  why 
she  must  say  him  nay — why  the  glamor  of  his 
wealth  and  station  could  not  sway  her  heart. 
Not  a  maid  in  Virginia  but  would  have  looked 
tenderly  upon  him,  of  that  she  felt  sure.  And 
yet,  she  saw  upon  the  curtain  of  her  mind  a  tall 
figure  in  fringed  buckskins  whose  deep  eyes 
spoke  a  wondrous  language  and  whose  mobile 
lips  shook  at  times  with  tenderness.  At  that 
unbidden  picture  she  frowned  and  laid  her 
capable  hands,  clenched  to  a  truculent  fist, 
upon  the  ledge  before  her. 

“A  traitor!”  she  told  herself.  “An  enemy 
to  my  King!” 

And  even  as  the  words  formed  themselves 
in  her  mind  there  broke  in  upon  her  reverie 
the  name  of  the  man  himself. 

“This  maker  of  speeches,”  von  Kneibling 
was  saying,  “this  arch-rebel,  this  one  who  calls 
himself  Patrick  Henry — without  him  would 
the  other  rebels  falter.  He  it  is  who  fires 
them  all — verdampt!  If  this  man,  mine 
friends,  gets  to  that  meeting  which  will  be  in 


182  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Richmond  held — and  soon,  we  believe — he  will 
lose  the  Crown  its  cause,  so  help  me  Gott!” 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent  from  the  rest 
and  von  Kneibling  went  on: 

“He  must  be  kept  from  Richmond,  gentle¬ 
men,  at  any  cost — by  any  means.” 

For  one  second  the  dim  outline  of  the  misty 
forest  wavered  before  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  lis¬ 
tening  now  with  every  sense  acute. 

Lose  the  Crown  its  cause! 

This  man  with  his  fatal  gift  of  speech;  this 
man  who  had  all  but  drawn  her  upon  his 
breast  with  the  tones  of  his  voice  alone;  this 
fire-brand — yes,  he  was  to  enter  that  mighty 
meeting  where  the  struggle  would  be  open  at 
last  ...  ah!  what  would  he  not  do,  with  the 
tow  of  rebellion  already  laid  for  the  lighting! 

Doxey  felt  the  sweat  break  in  the  palms  of 
her  hands  and  on  her  forehead  where  the  dark 
curls  lay.  Fierce  anger  rose  in  her,  flooding 
to  every  corner  of  her  being.  She  hated  him 
suddenly,  with  that  bitter  hatred  which  makes 
men  plunge  into  battle  with  a  shout.  She 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  183 

felt  as  if  she  could  strike  him  dead  with  her 
own  clenched  hand,  that  this  reptile  of  rebel¬ 
lion,  lifting  its  head  in  her  King’s  own  Colo¬ 
nies,  might  be  destroyed. 

Long  after  the  gentlemen  were  gone  from 
that  inner  room  the  girl  suffered  with  the  new 
knowledge  she  had  gained.  It  had  not  seemed 
possible  before  that  there  could  be  real  danger 
in  these  muttering  throngs. 

Now  she  saw  clearly  and  suddenly  what  His 
Excellency  and  those  with  him  had  seen  for 
many  months,  namely,  the  size  and  density 
of  the  descending  cloud. 

Doxey  Fairweather  hated  herself  that  she 
had  not  been  born  a  man,  to  shoulder  arms  and 
fling  herself  into  the  conflict.  So  she  tossed 
on  her  bed,  while  the  soft  rain  fell  on  the  inn’s 
roof,  and  beat  her  brain  for  a  thought  of  some¬ 
thing  she  might  do  to  serve  her  King — e’en 
though  a  woman’s  part  in  the  coming  struggle. 

While  the  slow  hours  dragged  she  sat  among 
her  patchwork  quilts,  her  knees  clasped  in  her 
embrace,  and  thought  long  thoughts  that  were 


184  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


sullen  with  this  hatred.  And  then,  just  as  a 
cock  in  the  stables  behind  the  inn  crew  for  the 
early  day,  her  eyes  grew  round  with  the  mag¬ 
nitude  of  some  inner  revelation.  Her  lips  fell 
helplessly  apart.  Doocey  Fairweather  had 
found  her  King's  command! 

Destiny,  it  seemed,  was  bent  on  favoring 
Patrick  Henry  with  missives. 

Forty-eight  hours  before  that  vital  one  set 
to  strike  in  Richmond,  he  sat  alone  before  his 
humble  hearth  deep  in  the  forest  that  he  loved, 
his  head  bowed  in  his  clasped  hands.  For 
the  man  was  modest  in  his  glowing  zeal,  and 
his  soul  besought  its  Maker  for  light,  as  Air. 
Jefferson  had  so  earnestly  advised. 

All  his  body  was  strung  to  trembling  pitch, 
like  a  singing  wire,  for  he  saw  the  flaming  fu¬ 
ture  and  his  own  part  in  it.  If  only  he  might 
be  worthy,  prayed  Patrick  Henry — might 
ever  so  slightly  help  to  turn  the  risen  tide ! 

And  then,  while  the  rain  dripped  from  the 
eaves  and  Roanie  munched  his  provender  in 
the  shed  at  the  cabin’s  side — for  Patrick  must 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  185 


needs  have  his  best  friend  always  near — there 
came  a  hail  from  the  dark  without,  and  a  man 
sat  there,  himself  and  his  horse  glistening  in 
the  light  that  danced  from  the  hearth  through 
the  opened  door.  He  was  a  servant,  by  his 
mien  and  garb,  but  one  whom  Patrick  did  not 
know. 

“Will  you  light,  friend?”  he  asked  the 
woodsman. 

But  the  other  shook  his  head  and  handed 
him  a  letter. 

This  was  no  delicate  bit  of  cobweb  like  that 
one  which  met  him  far  up  the  James,  but  a 
plain  and  sensible  looking  communication. 
So  he  took  it  near  the  hearth  to  read. 

This  is  what  he  saw,  written  in  a  round 
feminine  hand,  painstakingly  crossed  and 
dotted : 

To  Patrick  Henry,  sometime  frequenter  of  the 
Cock’s  Feather  Inn. 

Sir : 

Once,  upon  a  night  in  spring,  you  said  to  me,  “If 
ever  I  can  serve  you,  call,  and  I  shall  come.”  I 


186  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


call  you  now — on  vital  business.  This  very  night  I 
shall  be  in  Jamestown,  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Merwin 
(who  hath  befriended  my  father  on  a  time),  and 
would  fain  see  and  speak  with  you.  An  you  are 
true  to  that  promise — come. 

Your  obedient  servant, 
Doxey  Fairweather. 

The  man  by  the  hearth  straightened  to  his 
tall  height,  and  the  flames  themselves  were  no 
more  clear  and  shining  than  his  blue  eyes.  A 
little  smile  curled  up  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
the  hand  that  held  that  first  missive  trem¬ 
bling  slightly.  He  turned  to  bespeak  the 
messenger  without  and  bid  him  in  for  a  cup  of 
wine  to  hearten  him,  as  one  man  to  another, 
but  the  glistening  horse  and  its  rider  were 
gone,  disappeared  into  the  dripping  night 
which  had  given  them  up. 

So  Patrick  Henry,  the  patriot — called  by 
another  name,  and  with  a  price  upon  his  head 
in  Jamestown — set  himself  to  redeem  that 
old  promise  with  faithful  promptness.  He 
took  down  his  jacket  from  its  peg,  shook  it 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  18T 


with  almost  timid  care  and  straightened  out 
its  ragged  fringe. 

It  had  gone  shabby,  in  all  truth,  in  the 
months  when  he  had  ridden  the  byways,  for  he 
had  forgot  to  have  the  old  Indian,  who  ever 
kept  him  supplied,  to  tan  his  skins  for  a 
new  one.  Now  he  regretted  his  negligence. 
However,  it  must  serve.  So  he  put  it  on, 
swung  a  belt  about  his  loins  to  hold  the  knife 
that  went  always  where  he  did,  tightened  the 
thongs  at  his  knees,  set  his  fur  cap  on  his 
head,  took  his  rifle  and  stepped  out  to  saddle 
Roanie. 

What  high  hope  was  in  his  heart,  who  can 
say?  What  visions  of  hardly-hoped-for  joy? 
If  he  saw  an  humble  hearth  in  a  free  future 
and  a  woman’s  dark  head  shining  in  its  light — 
perhaps  above  a  cradle — who  could  blame  him? 
Love  was  with  him — had  been  with  him  for 
the  whole  long  year  since  he  had  stolen  to  the 
Inn’s  door  to  listen  to  a  maiden’s  voice  singing 
in  the  shadows. 

He  smiled  now  as  he  rode  in  the  rain,  his 


188  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


long  legs  swinging  in  the  stirrups,  his  hands 
crossed  on  his  saddle-bow,  thinking  of  that 
spirited  face  turned  to  Lord  Lester  in  angry 
indignation,  of  the  sharp  young  voice  saying 
defiantly:  “I  am  not  so  high-and-mighty,  be¬ 
ing  only  an  innkeeper’s  daughter,  therefore 
privileged  to  be  kind” — and  of  the  haunting 
strain  of  “The  Rose  and  Thorn.”  Ah!  could 
he  ever  forget  that  melody? 

This  one  woman,  of  all  the  world,  had  taken 
his  heart  by  storm;  this  one  slim  girl,  keen, 
spirited,  brave,  whose  favor  could  not  be 
bought  by  rank  or  station,  whose  beauty  was 
so  rare  and  glowing,  whose  deep  kindness  was 
a  byword  among  the  frequenters  of  her  fa¬ 
ther’s  inn. 

Ah!  thought  Patrick  Henry,  riding  in  the 
night  at  her  first  call,  this  was  the  woman  by¬ 
ordinary  in  whom  he  had  believed — must  al¬ 
ways  believe ! 

At  that  house  of  Mr.  Merwin,  situate  a  lit¬ 
tle  way  down  the  main  road  from  the  Gover¬ 
nor’s,  of  which  the  missive  spoke,  Doxey  Fair- 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  189 


weather  stood  in  her  hooded  cape  and  spoke 
earnestly  with  a  group  of  men. 

She  breathed  fast,  for  she,  too,  had  ridden 
in  the  night,  and  on  her  round  cheeks  the  rain 
drops  glistened  like  pearls  on  parchment,  for 
all  the  color  was  gone  from  her  face.  Only 
her  eyes  glowed  with  it — great  dark  eyes  that 
sparkled  and  dulled  and  sparkled  again  as  the 
light  from  the  candles  struck  across  them. 

The  gentlemen,  most  of  them  summoned 
hastily  by  the  barrister  at  the  girl’s  request, 
regarded  her  wonderingly.  There  was  His 
Excellency,  none  too  well  pleased  to  be  dis¬ 
turbed  at  a  rubber  of  cards,  and  von  Kneib- 
ling  and  the  strange  man  in  the  uniform  who 
had  been  with  them  at  the  inn,  along  with 
Lord  Lester,  brought  from  watching  Mistress 
Penelope  at  her  endless  broideries,  since,  for 
some  occult  reason,  he  had  desired  to  come. 
Now  he  looked  at  Doxey,  with  sick  longing, 
standing  back,  as  was  his  courteous  habit. 

“Sirs,”  said  Doxey,  trembling  a  little,  “as 
you  all  know,  I  am  a  loyalist.” 


190  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“None  better,  my  girl/’  said  the  Governor, 
kindly. 

“And  we  all  know  that  Virginia  hath  need 
of  her  true  hearts,  that  His  Majesty’s  cause 
is  in  grave  danger — is  it  not  so?” 

“Aye — would  God  it  were  not!”  answered 
His  Excellency. 

“Then  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  each  loyal 
heart  to  do  what  he  can  for  the  Cause — and  I 
— I  believe — ”  the  steady  young  voice  shook 
a  trifle — “that  I  may  serve.” 

She  wet  her  lips,  which  seemed  suddenly 
gone  dry,  and  the  gentlemen  waited. 

“When  last  you  conferred  at  my  father’s 
inn,  sirs,  I,  waiting  your  need  of  wine  and 
cakes  in  the  outer  room,  did  hear,  half  con¬ 
sciously,  your  speech  concerning  one  Patrick 
Henry,  and  how  great  a  danger  he  is  to  us. 
You  spoke  of  that  meeting  in  Richmond,  and 
that  he  must  not  attend.  Have  you  laid  plans 
to  prevent  him — if  I  might  ask?” 

“Plans!”  cried  the  Governor.  “Yes,  plans! 
But  that  is  all.  We  have  had  our  minions 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  191 


scouring  every  byroad  and  lane  for  six  days 
in  the  hope  of  capturing  him,  but  the  man’s  an 
eel — a  wisp  of  smoke!  No  one  knows  where 
he  is  or  has  been — or  is  likely  to  be!  And  I 
say  again,  Mistress,  if  Patrick  Henry  gets  to 
that  meeting  it  means  war  for  the  Colonies. 
Sedition  will  rise  like  the  James  in  freshet — 
and  none  may  know  the  result.  I’d  give  a 
chest  of  gold  to  have  him  in  my  hands  this 
night !” 

Again  the  girl  wet  her  lips.  Her  fingers 
shook  a  trifle  on  her  cape’s  edge. 

“Then,  sir,”  she  said,  “an  you  will  give  me 
safe  conduct  for  him  if  I  win  him  as  I  wish, 
I  think  I  can  keep  him  from  that  meeting. 
You  grant  me  it?” 

“With  all  my  heart,  Mistress!”  cried  the 
Governor  fervently. 

Doxey  turned  to  Mr.  Merwin. 

“I  think  Patrick  Henry  will  be  here  within 
the  hour.  An  you  will  conduct  him  to  a  pri¬ 
vate  room,  not  knowing  we  are  here,  and  take 
me  to  him,  I  will  thank  you.” 


192  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“  ’Odsblood!”  cried  His  Excellency  in 
amazement.  “How  found  you  him?  How 
did  you  effect  this  thing?” 

“I  know  a-many  things,  sir,”  said  Doxey, 
gravely,  “and  from  many  sources.  I  had 
rather  not  say.” 

Mr.  Merwin  left  the  room  with  alacrity,  and 
a  strained  silence  fell.  Doxey  sat  in  the  chair 
which  Lord  Lester  placed  for  her,  and  she 
seemed  fascinated  by  the  candles  that  burned 
in  sconces  on  the  walls,  for  her  dark  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  them  steadily. 

The  soft  sound  of  the  dripping  eaves  be¬ 
came  loud  in  the  stillness  and  Lord  Lester 
watched  the  girl  with  mingled  emotions.  Af¬ 
ter  a  long  time  there  came  from  the  outer 
street  the  sound  of  a  horse’s  hoofs  that  went 
carefully,  as  if  its  rider  were  alert,  and  stopped 
before  the  house.  They  heard  the  door 
and  the  barrister’s  voice — for  he  had  been  on 
watch  himself — and  the  silence  grew  deep 
again. 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  193 


Presently  Mr.  Merwin  returned,  grave  and 
quiet. 

“Mistress,”  he  said,  “he  awaits  you.” 

Then,  in  all  truth,  did  Doxey  Fairweather 
tremble  as  she  rose,  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
stand,  and  she  turned  wide-eyed  toward  His 
Excellency. 

“Sir,”  she  said,  “  I  beg  that  you  will  wait 
here — for — for  if — I  fail — ” 

She  did  not  finish,  but  turned  and  followed 
Mr.  Merwin. 

The  barrister  led  her  through  a  door  and 
down  a  short  hall,  where  one  dim  candle 
burned  in  its  high  sconce,  to  another  door  be¬ 
yond. 

This  he  opened,  bowed,  stepped  back  and 
closed  it  behind  her. 

The  girl  stood  still  against  it  for  a  moment 
with  one  hand  at  her  heart,  her  great  eyes,  like 
troubled  pools,  fixed  on  the  man  who  stood 
there  in  his  clinging  buckskins  sparkling  with 
the  beaded  rain. 


194  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“Mistress,”  said  Patrick  Henry,  “you 
called — and  I  am  here.” 

The  deep  blue  eyes,  beneath  their  oddly 
turned-up  lashes,  shone  with  the  joy  that  drew 
the  stern  mouth  into  the  smile  he  could  not 
hide. 

He  came  toward  her  with  both  hands  held 
out,  shaking  a  trifle  in  their  eagerness,  and 
involuntarily  she  laid  her  own  in  them. 

The  man  clasped  them  hard  and,  drawing 
them  swiftly  up,  laid  them,  palms  down, 
against  his  breast.  He  leaned  down  and 
smiled  into  her  eyes  and,  against  her  will,  she 
felt  her  senses  swim.  Then,  as  if  a  light  touch 
swept  a  harp,  the  softest  voice  she  had  ever 
heard  said: 

“Doxey!  Oh!  my  light  on  dark  waters — 
my  warmth  in  the  cold — heart  of  my  soul — I 
love  you!” 

And  the  next  second  he  had  swept  her  in 
upon  his  breast  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  her 
lips  in  such  a  kiss  as  sent  her  sinking  in  a  sea 
of  ecstasy.  A  marvelous  caress,  firm  enough 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  195 


to  be  ardent  with  the  fire  that  was  in  him,  yet 
so  soft  and  sweet  with  tenderness  that  it  must 
have  won  the  most  timid.  Flaming  from  brow 
to  throat,  the  girl  tore  herself  away  and  faced 
him,  panting  with  emotion. 

“Sir!”  she  said,  desperately,  “  I  came  here 
— and  brought  you — of  a  set  purpose!  These 
are  tense  tunes  and  we  act  with  sharpness. 
Tell  me  again — you  love  me?” 

Patrick  Henry,  shaken  to  the  depths,  but 
still  and  quiet  in  his  self-control,  bowed 
gravely. 

“To  the  foundation  of  my  being,”  he  said, 
simply,  “in  every  nerve  and  fibre — you  and 
you  only — and  shall — to  world’s  end.” 

“Then,”  said  Doxey,  wetting  her  lips, 
“what  would  do  you  for  me?” 

‘  'Anything — a  lino  s  t .  ” 

“To  have  me  to  wife — what?” 

“Lord!”  said  Patrick  Henry.  And  the 
hand  that  lay  uppermost  on  his  folded  arms 
shut  and  opened  once. 

“What?”  probed  the  girl. 


196  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“What  would  you?”  he  asked. 

Down  from  the  vanished  ages  came  Delilah 
and  spread  her  guileful  spirit  all  through  the 
good  heart  of  Doxey  Fairweather,  so  that,  for 
sake  of  the  liege  she  had  never  seen,  she  went 
to  this  lean  backwoodsman  and  laid  betraying 
fingers  on  his  arm. 

“Stay  away  from  that  meeting  in  Rich¬ 
mond!”  she  said.  “And  for  this  you  shall 
marry  me  and — I  will  be  your  true  and  faith¬ 
ful  wife  all  the  days  of  my  life.” 

Alas!  for  the  splendid  kiss,  for  the  lofty 
dreams,  for  the  vision  of  a  bent  black  head 
above  a  rocking  cradle! 

Patrick  Henry’s  face  quivered,  as  if  she 
had  struck  him.  The  shining  blue  eyes  dulled, 
the  lids  closed  tightly  over  them  as  if  in  an 
effort  to  keep  back  springing  tears — which  was 
indeed  the  case.  For  something  that  was 
not  sparkling  rain  stole  down  along  the  lean 
cheek  and  it,  too,  sparkled  in  the  candle¬ 
light. 

The  hands  on  the  folded  arms  slid  loosely 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  197 


down,  the  fingers  of  one  fiddling  with  the  old 
fur  cap  they  held. 

For  one  long  moment  he  stood  so,  still  as 
death. 

Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  raised  his 
glance  and  looked  at  her,  and  all  the  tears 
were  burned  from  his  eyes  in  the  mounting 
fire  that  filled  them. 

He  seemed  to  dilate,  to  be  taller,  more  gaunt 
and  graceful  than  she  had  ever  seen  him. 
Along  his  right  cheek  a  muscle  twitched. 

“It  was  for  this,  then,”  he  said,  thickly, 
“that  I  have  dreamed  dreams  and  heard  melo¬ 
dies!  For  this  my  heart  melted  in  the  fire  of 
your  beauty!  For  this  have  you  called,  and 
I  answered!  To  make  of  me  that  poorest  of 
all  things,  the  most  despised — a  traitor!  You 
thought  so  poorly  of  me,  then,  Mistress?” 

“I  thought  you  loved  me,”  said  Doxey,  with 
consummate  guile. 

Patrick  Henry  raised  a  hand  and  dropped 
it — a  piteous  motion  of  resignation. 

“Woman,”  he  said,  “an  I  lay  in  your  arms 


198  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


this  moment,  which  great  blessing  I  have  not 
dared  ask  of  Heaven,  I  should  fling  you  aside 
like  a  garment,  did  you  attempt  to  hold  me 
when  that  sharp  summons  came!  You — and 
my  only  friend,  the  big  roan  horse  without — 
and  my  life — these  do  I  fling  in  the  balance 
for  my  country’s  sake!  They  are  my  only 
precious  things — they  are  my  sacrifice — less 
than  nothing,  in  my  country’s  need!  I  give 
you  good  night  and — goodbye.” 

He  bowed  so  low  before  her  that  the 
shabby  fur  cap  swept  the  floor  in  his  hand’s 
broad  sweep,  then  straightened  to  his  full 
height. 

“You — ”  said  Doxey,  faintly,  “you — refuse 
me?” 

Without  a  second’s  hesitation,  and  with 
finality,”  he  said. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  regarded  him  with 
wide  eyes,  her  lips  parted,  as  if  her  breath 
came  with  difficulty.  There  was  a  vast  weak¬ 
ness  in  her  limbs,  yet  desperate  courage  in 
her  heart.  She  was  of  the  stuff  of  martyrs, 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  199 


this  sweet  woman  who  thought  she  was  on  the 
rack  of  right. 

Then,  as  the  man  moved  toward  the  door  to 
hold  it  for  her,  she  flashed  before  him,  sprang 
through,  drew  the  door  shut  and — dropped 
into  its  slot  the  bar  that  crossed  it! 

Patrick  Henry,  the  lighter  of  flames,  the 
friend  of  liberty,  arch-enemy  of  the  Crown, 
was  a  prisoner! 

Doxey  Fairweather  darted  across  the  dim 
hall  and,  flinging  open  the  door  to  that  other 
room,  stood  in  the  entrance.  Her  face  was 
white  as  wax,  her  lips  ashen,  her  hand  was  at 
her  breast. 

“Gentlemen,”  she  cried,  “he  is  there — go 
take  him!” 

There  was  an  exclamation  from  von  Kneib- 
ling,  a  guttural  word  spoken  in  his  own 
tongue,  and  the  gentlemen  pushed  through  in 
eagerness.  The  girl  stared  at  the  candles  once 
more,  and  she  did  not  hear  the  sharply  drawn 
breath  of  another  woman  in  the  shadows  near 
Lord  Lester.  Mistress  Penelope  Dunmore 


200  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


had  come  hurriedly  through  the  night.  The 
passionate  whisper  of  her  serving-maid  had 
told  her  a  roan  horse  had  passed  through  the 
faint  light  of  the  postlanthorn  in  the  street. 

Presently  the  principal  actors  in  this  small 
drama  of  love  and  war  stood  together  in  Mr. 
Merwin’s  house,  while  the  rain  dripped  with¬ 
out — as  if  Virginia  wept — for  they  brought 
Patrick  Henry  to  stand  in  his  shabby  clothes 
and  face  them. 

As  he  came  through  the  door  his  eyes  went 
helplessly  to  the  girl  in  the  hooded  cape  who 
had  betrayed  him,  and  they  were  eloquent. 
Deep  eyes  alight  with  flame,  their  lashes 
turned  up  around  the  lids  with  a  certain  boy¬ 
ish  beauty,  and  they  spoke  with  a  thousand 
tongues.  An  odd  silence  fell  upon  the  room, 
as  if  all  but  the  prisoner  were  painfully  embar¬ 
rassed. 

Lord  Lester  and  Penelope  each  was  pass¬ 
ing  through  a  strange  experience,  for  each  was 
reading  another’s  face;  the  nobleman,  that  of 
the  tavern-keeper’s  daughter;  the  maid,  that 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  201 


of  the  patriot — and  each  saw  there  the  print 
of  love. 

His  Excellency  spoke  a  few  sharp  words, 
at  which  von  Kneibling  and  the  young  officer 
stepped  forward  and  laid  hand  on  the  prison¬ 
er’s  arms. 

“That,”  said  xhe  latter,  gently,  “is  not  neces¬ 
sary.” 

“But  pleasant,”  said  the  German,  “mine 
friendt,  very  pleasant.” 

“Perhaps,”  returned  Henry.  “But  a  cheap 
triumph,  since  you  must  needs  take  me  from 
a  woman’s  hand.” 

At  that  there  was  a  little  sound,  scarce  audi¬ 
ble,  as  if  one  caught  in  her  breath  and  let  it 
out  sharply. 

Once  again  the  man  looked  at  the  girl  in 
the  hooded  cape. 

“Mistress,”  he  said,  “though  you  have  me 
shot  tomorrow — as  no  doubt  you  will — you 
are  still  my  woman  by-ordinary.  I  must  still 
believe.” 

“No!”  cried  out  Doxey,  suddenly,  “say  not 


202  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

so!  I — I  cannot  bear  it!  And  I  have  His 
Excellency’s  word  for  safe  conduct — ” 

“No,”  cut  in  the  Governor,  sharply,  “only 
in  case  you  'won  him  as  you  wished.’  There 
was  no  mention  made  an  you  should  fail.” 

“You — mean — ”  gasped  the  girl. 

“That  this  man — a  traitor  to  his  king — is 
now  our  prisoner,  and  must  pay  the  price  of 
treachery!” 

“And  as  example  to  other  traitors,”  grinned 
von  Kneibling.  “And  this  time  there  will  be 
no  stopping  at  a  rifle’s  mouth.” 

“Lord  God!”  whispered  Penelope,  white 
lipped,  though  none  heard  save  Lord  Lester, 
who  stood  beside  her,  and  who  reached  a  kindly 
hand  to  touch  her  fingers,  working  in  her 
kirtle’s  folds. 

But  Doxey  Fairweather  groped  blindly  for 
the  chair’s  back  and,  fastening  her  hands  upon 
it,  turned  great  scared  eyes  from  one  face  to 
another. 

“Not — safe — conduct,  sirs?”  she  said,  stu¬ 
pidly. 


LOVE  BETRAYS  ITS  OWN  203 


“None.” 

“Then — what  have  I  done!”  she  whispered, 
as  if  to  herself — “what  have  I  done!” 

But  already  the  group  of  gentlemen,  close- 
packed  about  the  tall  figure  in  their  midst, 
was  moving  from  the  room.  At  the  thresh¬ 
old  the  prisoner  turned  and  looked  back  with 
troubled  eyes. 

“For  myself,”  he  said,  “I  ask  no  clemency, 
but  there  is  one  that  I  would  bid  some  one  to 
take  and  keep,  an  any  here  is  so  minded — the 
good  roan  horse,  that  waits  for  me  without. 
Gentlemen,  can  I  commend  him  to  your 
mercy?  He  is  a  good,  faithful  horse.” 

“Ja,”  said  von  Kneibling  quickly,  “have  no 
fear.  He  will  be  most  meticulously  kept — 
against  that  other  ride  which  I  have  pledged 
to  take  through  the  streets  of  Jamestown  with 
another  traitor  at  his  heels.” 

But  from  the  farther  side  of  the  dim  room 
a  soft  voice  spoke  with  a  smooth  and  gentle 
accent. 

“Friend,”  said  Lord  Lester,  “I  accept  your 


204  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


charge.  The  roan  horse  will  be  waiting  when 
perchance  Virginia’s  difficulties  shall  be 
smoothed  away  and  all  these  sorry  clouds  are 
vanished.” 

Patrick  Henry,  from  his  tall  height,  flashed 
the  nobleman  a  smile  across  the  other’s  heads. 

“Thanks,  friend,”  he  said. 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


CHAPTER  XI 

a  woman’s  kiss 


THE  New  World  lay  trembling — holding 
its  breath.  Men  with  pale  faces  and  grim  lips 
were  traveling  its  muddy  roads  from  all  di¬ 
rections,  going  toward  Richmond. 

The  dreary  rain  continued  to  fall,  intensify¬ 
ing  the  silence  of  the  forests  that  marched  ever 
along  the  highways  of  the  young  land. 

Couriers  galloped  this  way  and  that  with 
messages.  Some  of  them  were  on  the  King’s 
business  and  went  in  freedom,  while  others 
were  stopped  by  the  soldiery.  But  many  went 
in  secret,  and  the  muttering  of  the  throngs 
had  stilled  to  quiet — that  pregnant  quiet  which 
precedes  action. 

On  the  eve  of  this  fateful  meeting  the  Gov¬ 
ernor  had  sent  a  call  to  all  loyalists  to  go  to 

Richmond.  If  they  could  not  prevent  the 

207 


208  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


rebels  gathering,  they  might,  by  overwhelm¬ 
ing  numbers,  stampede  them  with  flamboy¬ 
ant  loyalty. 

Boston  and  Philadelphia  were  seething 
with  their  own  trouble.  Jamestown,  famous 
for  its  legal  heads,  its  influence,  must  go  in 
force.'  So  there  was  gathering  of  groups  in 
the  lamp -light  in  the  misty  streets,  stamping 
of  horses  where  coaches  glistened  in  the  rain, 
and  hurried  speech  of  men  in  long  coats  who 
made  ready  for  a  desperate  journey. 

Before  the  house  of  the  Governor  stood  the 
best  equipage  the  town  afforded,  a  splendid 
coach,  strong  and  well  curtained,  drawn  by  the 
best  stock  to  be  had  in  Jamestown.  In  this 
was  to  go  His  Excellency  himself,  along  with 
his  chosen  few — Mr.  Merwin,  Mr.  Randolph, 
(both  of  whom  were  noted  orators),  von 
Kneibling  and  the  man  in  uniform.  Other 
coaches  waited,  and  other  gentlemen  pulled  on 
gloves,  kissed  their  ladies  and  opened  the  gates 
to  their  gardens,  passing  out  on  this  most  fate¬ 
ful  business.  There  were  old  men  and  mid- 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


209 


dle-aged,  and  some  of  the  macaronies  who  had 
been  wont  a  year  ago  to  spend  their  time  at 
the  Cock’s  Feather  Inn  over  the  cards  and 
John  Fairweather’s  ale,  though  now  their 
gaiety  was  gone.  Jack  Frisbee  and  the 
younger  Randolphs  were  all  that  were  left  of 
the  roystering  group  that  used  to  ride  the 
turnpike,  and  they  stood  together  in  bitter 
loyalty;  for  Timothy  Lovelace  and  Harry 
Corton  were  openly  following  Thomas  Jeffer¬ 
son  and  Mr.  Washington,  while  Lord  Lester 
stood  aside,  uncommunicative,  watching  both 
sides  with  grave  and  quiet  eyes. 

Penelope  Dunmore,  her  sweet  face  some¬ 
what  pinched  in  the  dimpled  cheeks,  her  hazel 
eyes  dark  with  some  inner  excitement,  sub¬ 
mitted  to  her  father’s  hasty  peck  upon  her 
forehead,  gave  her  hand  to  Mr.  Merwin, 
bowed  to  the  rest — and  failed  to  see  von 
Kneibling’s  outstretched  hand. 

Not  once,  in  the  hours  that  had  elapsed 
since  the  tragic  happening  at  the  barrister’s 
house,  had  she  been  able  to  forget  the  Ger- 


210  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

man’s  evil  smile  or  his  covert  threat  concern¬ 
ing  that  awful  ride.  She  seemed  to  see  again 
and  again  a  bundle  bouncing  at  a  horse’s 
heels — and  this  time  worn  buckskins  flutter¬ 
ing  their  fringes  in  the  dust,  a  blond  head 
rolled  limply.  She  shuddered,  as  if  with  a 
little  chill,  and  drew  her  kerchief  close  to  her 
white  throat. 

Then  the  coach  door  slammed,  the  black 
driver  mounted  the  box,  the  young  horses 
sprang  away,  other  coaches  started  down  the 
street,  and  the  pick  of  Jamestown  was  on  its 
way  to  save  the  day  for  King  George  III. 

And  in  a  windowless  room  underground, 
scarce  an  hundred  paces  from  the  window 
where  she  stood,  Patrick  Henry  sat  on  a  rude 
bed  with  his  head  in  his  hands  and  black  de¬ 
spair  in  his  heart.  Be  it  said  to  his  honor  that 
no  thought  of  his  sorrow  and  loss  intruded,  but 
that  all  the  pain  that  racked  him  had  its  source 
in  his  country’s  peril  and  his  own  failure  to  aid 
her  in  her  dark  hour. 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


211 


He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
slow  tears  dripped  between  the  trembling  fin¬ 
gers.  They  were  bitter  drops,  vital  as  blood 
from  the  patriot  heart  beneath.  ...  A  sol¬ 
dier  in  the  King’s  colors  paced  the  stone- 
flagged  passageway  without  the  door,  his 
steps  regular  as  the  swinging  of  a  pendulum. 
And  Patrick  Henry  wept  as  slowly  and  drear¬ 
ily  as  the  weeping  eaves  outside.  .  .  . 

All  through  the  long  night  Mistress  Penel¬ 
ope  Dunmore  walked  in  her  tiring-room,  a 
warm  scarf  drawn  about  her  shoulders,  her 
hair  still  coifed  and  powdered,  her  bodice  laced 
and  her  wide  skirt  swinging  as  she  walked. 
There  was  a  piteous  expression  in  her  soft 
sweet  eyes,  a  trembling  in  her  lips. 

Patience  Conwell  stood  quietly  by  the 
closed  door  or  replenished  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  seeing  to  all  for  her  mistress’  comfort, 
and  from  time  to  time  came  and  walked  be¬ 
side  her,  her  arm  about  the  more  delicate 
shoulders  in  that  passionate  adoration  which 


212  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

characterized  all  her  service.  Once  she 
touched  the  white  fingers  that  played  cease¬ 
lessly  with  the  kerchief’s  ruffle,  and  they  were 
cold  as  death. 

When  the  grey  dawn  came  creeping  under 
the  greyer  clouds  the  girl  lay  down  in  her 
high  bed,  dressed  as  she  was,  and  slept, 
though  Patience  entreated  to  be  allowed  to  un¬ 
dress  her. 

“It  seems  I  can  take  no  peace,  ever  again,” 
said  Penelope,  dully,  “what  with  the  darkness 
of  the  year — and  the  loss  of  Sheila  and  Eu- 
phenie — and  now  this — this — ” 

She  did  not  finish  for  the  catching  in  her 
throat,  but  fell  into  weary  slumber  with  the 
tremble  still  in  her  lips  and  the  white  fingers 
twitching  in  their  sleep.  It  was  almost  night 
again  when  she  awoke.  Patience  Conwell 
bent  above  her  with  a  cup  of  steaming  broth. 

“Drink,  Mistress,”  she  begged.  “It  will 
break  my  heart  an  you  do  not.  There  are 
dark  rings  beneath  your  eyes.” 

But  Penelope  pushed  it  away,  and  at  the 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


213 


shaking  of  her  head  the  long  curl  bobbed  wist¬ 
fully  on  her  shoulder. 

“I  cannot,”  she  said. 

Then  it  was  that  the  serving-maid  showed 
the  quality  of  her  mind  and  heart,  for  she  bent 
low  and,  with  her  rosy  lips  at  her  mistress’  ear, 
whispered : 

“There  is,  as  sentry  in  the  stone  passage¬ 
way  below,  a  big  soldier  with  covetous  eyes 
and  full  lips — a  youth  of  bounding  blood.  I 
think — if  one  offered  him,  perhaps,  a  kiss — 
some  one  like — like  me,  you  know,  Mistress, 
he  might  be  persuaded  to —  Sir  Buckskins 
hath  a  pretty  way  in  battle,  as  none  knows 
better  than  I.  And  a  kiss  to  a  soldier  were 
small  coin  to  pay  for  the  great  debt  I  owe  him. 
Will  you  drink  now.  Mistress?” 

Ah!  what  magic  was  in  the  subtle  words! 

Mistress  Penelope  reached  for  the  cup  and 
drained  it  eagerly. 

“How  near  is  the  night?”  she  whispered, 
looking  toward  the  window.  And  Patience 
whispered  back,  “  ’Tis  almost  here.” 


214  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Pace — pace — pace,  turn  and  pace.  Pace — 
pace — turn  again. 

The  soldier  in  the  passage  went  to  the  far 
end,  where  a  door  led  out  beyond  a  flight  of 
stairs,  and,  turning  methodically,  came  back 
along  the  narrow  way,  his  gun  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  was  a  handsome  youth,  of  a 
broad  make,  with  the  neck  of  a  bull  set  on 
powerful  shoulders,  and  bold  blue  eyes  that 
wandered.  His  tall  cap  towered  above  him 
and  his  gay  coat  was  bright  with  its  crossed 
straps  and  buttons.  His  boots  shone  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  lanthorn  that  swung  from 
the  rafters. 

The  door  to  that  solitary  underground  room 
was  barred  and  locked,  the  clumsy  key  stand¬ 
ing  in  its  lock.  In  the  door  itself  was  a  small 
opening,  criss-crossed  with  stout  iron  lattices. 
There  was  no  light  within  the  room  itself. 
The  prisoner  needed  none.  It  seemed  to 
him,  in  his  thwarted  zeal,  that  if  he  could  not 
see  the  light  of  liberty  he  cared  never  to  see 
another.  He  had  not  slept  a  minute  in  the 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


215 


twenty  hours  since  he  had  felt  the  rumble  in 
the  earthen  walls  that  marked  the  going  of 
that  coach  and  four.  He  had  sat  in  a  dull 
lethargy  of  despair,  or  paced  the  narrow  space 
like  a  caged  lion,  biting  at  his  finger-nails. 

So  the  sentry  paid  him  small  heed,  pacing 
in  his  tireless  walk. 

But  presently,  in  the  cold  silence,  there  came 
a  sound,  a  little  soft  sound  as  of  a  light  foot 
on  the  stone  stairs,  and  the  soldier  snapped 
his  gun  around  and  cried  a  halt.  Steady  fin¬ 
gers  were  on  the  trigger.  Death  was  in  his 
face.  But  it  gave  way  to  pleased  astonish¬ 
ment  when  he  beheld  in  the  lanthorn’s  light, 
first  the  hem  of  a  broad  brocaded  kirtle,  and 
then  the  handsome  face  of  a  girl  who  leaned 
down  from  the  stairs  and  looked  with  smiling 
eyes  along  the  passage. 

“Good  even,  Sir  Sentry,”  said  Patience 
Conwell,  archly. 

Now  the  soldier  was  young  and,  as  the  girl 
had  so  shrewdly  guessed,  of  a  quick  pulse  and 
a  daring  spirit.  His  bold  blue  eyes  lighted  in- 


216  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


stantly  at  sight  of  her  beauty  and  he  lowered 
his  weapon. 

‘‘Good  even,  Mistress,”  he  said,  willingly. 

She  came  down  along  the  passage,  stepping 
daintily  and  swinging  her  broad  skirt  with  a 
subtle  coquetry,  and  stood  before  the  youth, 
smiling. 

Patience  Conwell  had  been  good  to  look 
upon  that  long  past  day  when  she  stood  in  fear 
and  trembling  upon  the  auction  block,  and 
the  year’s  well-being  had  added  to  her  grace. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  soft  and  bright,  her  fair 
hair,  unpowdered,  shone  mistily  under  the 
light,  and  her  inviting  mouth  was  curved  and 
red. 

So  it  was  small  wonder  that  the  young  Eng¬ 
lish  soldier  gazed  at  her  with  unconcealed 
pleasure.  She  stood  primly  upon  her  pretty 
feet  and  played  with  a  ribband  in  the  lacing 
of  her  bodice  as  if  she  were  shy  and  diffident. 

“To  what  good  fortune,  pretty,”  said  the 
youth,  boldly,  “do  I  owe  this  kindly  visit — I, 
in  my  lonely  and  thankless  task?” 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS  217 

Patience  dropped  her  glance  and  ceased  her 
smiling. 

“Why — I — ”  she  said,  and  hesitated. 

“Yes?” 

“I  am  far  from  England,  sir,”  she  went  on, 
“and  lonely.”  (Here  she  mutely  prayed  for¬ 
giveness  for  the  falsehood,  for  she  owned  a 
lively  happiness  in  her  beloved  mistress’  ser¬ 
vice.)  “Is  it  any  wonder  that  I,  seeing  you 
with  your  fellows  in  the  Governor’s  yard  and 
knowing  you  for  a  countryman,  should  desire 
to  speak  with  you?” 

“None.  And  I  am  glad  of  the  desire,  for 
this  is  lonely  work.” 

So,  for  a  little  space,  they  spoke  of  that 
dear  land  across  the  sea,  and  Patience,  in  her 
seeming  eagerness  for  its  old  news,  came  near 
and  stood  searching  the  soldier’s  face.  And 
presently  she  answered  once  at  random,  as  if, 
in  gazing  at  him,  she  had  forgot  his  words. 
At  that,  a  gleam  grew  in  the  youth’s  bold  eyes 
and  he  laid  a  light  touch  on  her  arm.  She 
suffered  it,  though  every  instinct  in  her  longed 


218  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

to  throw  it  off.  And  she  seemed  taken  with 
a  sudden  embarrassment,  so  that  she  must 
make  hurried  speech  to  hide  it. 

“New  at  the  game  of  love,”  thought  the  sol¬ 
dier,  “but  willing  to  learn.” 

“You — you  do  not  fear  the  dark  and  the 
loneliness  a-picketing  your  camp  at  night?” 
she  asked. 

“Fear!  A  soldier  of  His  Majesty!”  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  laughing.  “You  do  me  scant  honor, 
Mistress.  I  fear  more  such  blue  eyes  as  yours, 
for  they  are  deadly  weapons.” 

The  girl  dropped  her  head,  and  the  bold 
hand  crept  up  her  arm. 

She  shifted  on  her  feet  a  bit,  so  that  she 
leaned  with  her  back  against  the  wall  beside 
the  door,  and  the  youth  leaned  nearer,  his 
other  hand  on  the  wall  above  her  head,  his  gun 
resting  on  the  floor  beside  him. 

Her  beauty  shone  in  the  dim  light  and  set 
his  breath  a-flutter. 

Covetousness  was  in  his  drowsy  glance. 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


219 


The  girl’s  strong  heart  shook  ever  so  slightly 
in  its  steady  beat  with  a  nameless  fright. 

As  if  to  gain  time  before  capitulation,  she 
turned  her  eyes  away  and  picked  at  the  damp 
stones  beside  her. 

“But  what  of  the  rebels?”  she  asked,  “an 
they  should  come  to  rescue  the  prisoner?” 

“We’ll  shoot  them  like  dogs,”  he  answered. 

“This  man  you  guard,”  said  Patience, 
clearly,  “this  Patrick  Henry,  is  a  fighter  him¬ 
self,  I  hear.  There  is  a  story  current  of  his 
once  throwing  into  the  River  James  a  trader 
who  whipped  a  maid,  an  indentured  servant 
he  had  bought.  He  is  quick  to  see — to  under¬ 
stand — to  act.  I  think,  did  he  catch  so  much 
as  a  shadow  of  chance,  he  would  seize  it  like 
a  flash.” 

Inside  the  darkened  room  the  man  on  the 
bed’s  edge  raised  his  head  from  his  hands. 
There  was  something  in  the  tones  of  the  voice 
that  caught  at  his  consciousness. 

“I  thank  you  for  the  warning,  sweet,”  the 


220  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


soldier  said,  “and  like  you  the  better  for  it. 
Have  no  fear.  He  is  safe — and  no  rebels  can 
gain  entrance  to  the  Governor’s  own  house.” 

“But  His  Excellency  is  gone,”  said  Pa¬ 
tience,  “and  only  the  servants  are  in,  beside  the 
soldiers  in  the  upper  hall.  To  be  sure,”  she 
went  on,  still  in  that  odd,  clear  tone,  “Lord 
Lester  is  with  my  mistress  in  the  small  recep¬ 
tion  room  beside  the  entrance  to  the  garden. 
He  comes  often.  And  I  think  this  night  he 
rode  the  prisoner’s  own  horse,  a  big  and  pow¬ 
erful  roan.  ’Tis  a  pity  he  leaves  it  in  the  gar¬ 
den,  for  the  mist  is  heavy.” 

From  the  bed’s  edge  a  tall  form  rose  with  the 
grace  and  silence  of  a  panther  and  stepped  to 
the  door.  The  small  blue  eyes,  burning  now 
with  sudden  lambent  flame,  looked  through 
the  lattice  and  beheld  the  aureoled  head  of 
the  girl,  and  the  fatuous  face  the  soldier  bent 
toward  her.  With  a  great  light  breaking  in 
upon  him,  Patrick  Henry  knew  her  for  the 
lass  from  Lancashire  whom  he  had  led  to  the 
Governor’s  daughter  that  day  in  spring!  She 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


221 


was  subtly  telling  him  astounding  things.  .  .  . 
Lord  Lester,  who  had  called  him  “friend”  in 
the  room  beside  the  garden  entrance  .  .  .  and 
Roanie  waiting  in  the  night!  Could  it  be  co¬ 
incidence? 

He  held  his  breath  for  the  girl’s  next  words. 

The  soldier  was  very  close  above  her  now. 
Henry  could  hear  his  breathing.  The  bold 
hand  had  reached  her  throat — was  creeping 
around  her  neck. 

“Sweet,”  he  whispered,  “one  kiss — that  red 
mouth — ah!  be  still — just  one  kiss!” 

For  Patience  squirmed  against  the  door,  as 
if  in  an  agony  of  embarrassment,  one  hand 
gripping  his  arm.  Patrick  could  not  see  the 
other,  but  he,  watching  desperately,  did  see 
that  her  left  shoulder  slid  down,  as  if  that 
other  hand  were  behind  her  back — reaching — 
reaching  for  something  there.  The  man  with 
the  flaming  eyes  held  his  breath  and  listened,  as 
we  listen  for  the  failing  breath  of  one  we  love. 

“Ah!  well — ”  whispered  the  girl,  “then — 
just — one — kiss !” 


222  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


And  as  the  soldier  pressed  his  passionate 
mouth  to  hers  the  man  in  the  cell  behind, 
standing  crouched  and  ready,  heard  what  he 
was  listening  for — the  click  of  the  key  in  the 
lock ! 

In  one  lightning  flash — before  the  as¬ 
tounded  sentry  could  loose  himself  from  the 
girl’s  sudden  clutch,  almost  before  the  kiss  was 
done — there  was  the  surge  and  scramble  of 
three  bodies  from  the  wide-flung  door — and 
the  lean  man  in  the  buckskins  was  upon  him! 

The  young  soldier  was  no  weakling.  Upon 
the  instant  they  were  in  deadly  combat,  there 
in  the  deep  silence  of  the  stone  passage,  while 
the  girl  stood  back,  one  hand  upon  her  breast, 
the  other  pressed  to  her  lips,  warm  from  that 
false  kiss. 

Silent,  straining,  desperate,  the  two  men 
went  here  and  there,  each  striving  for  the  oth¬ 
er’s  throat,  their  feet  slipping  on  the  damp 
flags,  their  muscles  cracking  in  the  fury  of  the 
struggle. 


HE  HEARD  WHAT  HE  WAS  LISTENING  FOR-THE  CLICK  OF 

THE  KEY  IN  THE  LOCK 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


223 


_  x 

They  were  evenly  matched  and  bade  fair  to 
wear  each  other  out. 

Back  and  forth  they  went — now  down  upon 
the  floor,  again  pressing  each  other  against  the 
wall,  but  neither  giving  sign  of  surrender. 

Presently,  the  girl,  watching  her  chance, 
came  deftly  in  and  wound  her  arms  about  the 
soldier’s  neck,  hanging  herself,  a  deadening 
weight,  upon  him.  ...  A  little  time,  a  gal¬ 
lant,  gallant  effort  of  all  that  was  in  him — a 
pathetic  storm  of  struggle  against  the  double 
odds — and  he  went  down  upon  the  stones,  with 
Patience  Conwell’s  brilliant  eyes  turned  up 
to  Patrick  Henry  panting  above  them. 

“Go!”  she  cried.  “Go  quickly — and  God 
be  with  you,  Sir  Buckskins!  I’ll  hold  him 
here — or  choke  him  to  death  with  loving!” 

But  Patrick  Henry  hesitated. 

“Why  do  you  wait?”  she  cried.  “The  door 
yonder  leads  to  the  garden,  and  the  sentry 
there  is  sodden  with  sack — sent  and  doctored 
with  heavy  liquor  by  my  mistress’  own  hands.” 


224  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


“I  cannot  leave  you — and  him — thus,”  said 
Henry,  thinking  swiftly.  “It  would  mean  his 
death — and  disaster  to  you — to  whom  I  owe 
so  much.  I’ll  bind  him  fast  and  break  the 
lock  of  the  outer  door.  You  can  spread  the 
tale  that  my  friends  overpowered  the  outside 
man,  and,  binding  this  man  thus,  did  liberate 
me.” 

It  took  but  scant  time  to  tie  the  winded 
soldier,  though  he  fought  again.  The  girl’s 
comely  face  grew  red  with  the  effort  of  help¬ 
ing  hold  him,  and  Patrick  Henry,  stopping  a 
moment  to  press  her  hand,  ran  up  the  stairs 
to  the  outer  door,  broke  its  lock  with  a  maul 
that  lay  near,  pushed  aside  the  drunken  sen¬ 
try,  picked  up  his  gun  and  plunged  into  the 
mist.  He  kept  close  to  the  log  wall,  reached 
the  corner,  looked  around  it  into  the  dark  gar¬ 
den,  listened  a  moment,  then  crept  like  a  cat 
to  that  side  entrance  of  which  the  girl  had 
spoken.  In  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  hooded 
stoop  he  fancied  he  descried  a  figure.  With 
infinite  caution,  he  waited.  Nothing  moved 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


225 


in  the  garden.  And  then,  with  some  shift  of 
the  faint  wet  wind,  knowledge  of  his  presence 
was  carried  swiftly  to  one  waiting  also — 
Roanie  safe  hid  beneath  a  hanging  leafless 
vine — and  with  the  unfathomed  faithfulness 
of  the  dumb  heart  that  blindly  loves,  the  horse 
flung  up  his  head  and  whinnied  softly. 

Patrick  Henry  sprang  toward  him,  and  the 
dim  figure  in  the  stoop  came  out.  Two  fig¬ 
ures  there  were,  for  a  woman  followed  the 
man.  Lord  Lester  spoke  guardedly. 

“We  wish  you  Godspeed,  friend,”  he  said. 

The  patriot  turned  and  clasped  his  hand, 
wringing  it  hard. 

“I  have  no  words,”  he  said  simply.  “In 
such  a  moment  they  are  not  needed.” 

To  the  girl  beside  the  nobleman  he  bowed 
low. 

“Dear  lady,”  he  whispered,  “once  I  did  kiss 
your  hand  in  courtesy  before  a  multitude. 
May  I  kiss  it  now  in  passionate  gratitude  and 
humble  affection?” 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Mistress  Penel- 


226  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


ope  laid  her  small  cold  fingers  in  it.  At  the 
touch  of  the  man’s  lips,  warm  and  firm  and 
tremulous,  she  raised  her  other  hand  and  cov¬ 
ered  her  face,  for  tears  were  on  her  lashes  and 
the  sweet  mouth  was  shaking  piteously. 

In  another  moment  the  lean  figure  had 
vaulted  into  the  saddle,  Lord  Lester  had 
opened  the  outer  gate,  there  was  a  rataplan  of 
hoofs  upon  the  road — and  Patrick  Henry, 
twenty  hours  late,  was  gone  upon  his  mission, 
riding  desperately  to  his  country’s  call! 

The  Tighter  of  Flames  was  loose  in  the 
night! 

In  the  shadow  of  the  stoop  Lord  Lester 
reached  out  tender  arms,  and  Penelope,  her 
hands  still  covering  her  face,  went  into  them 
and  leaned  against  his  breast. 

“Dear  heart,”  said  the  young  man,  gently, 
“the  bitter  waters  of  unrequited  love  are  near 
to  swamping  us  both.  Perhaps,  an  we  swim 
together,  we  may  win  out  to  peaceful  shores. 
Mayhap  we  may  thank  the  fate  that  throws 
us  together  now  in  understanding.  Will  you 


A  WOMAN’S  KISS 


227 


come  with  me,  Penelope,  that  we  may  help  each 
other  to  forget?  Life  is  long  before  us.  Let 
us  travel  it  together  toward  a  better  day.” 

And  for  answer  the  weeping  girl  reached 
up  a  timid  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  cheek. 

An  hour  later  Patience  Conwell  came  by  a 
roundabout  way  to  her  mistress’  room.  She 
had  waited  and  crept,  that  none  might  observe 
her,  for  she  had  good  reason  that  none  should 
suspect  her  of  being  away  from  that  quiet 
realm  that  night.  She  stood  against  the  door, 
once  she  had  entered,  and  looked  at  Penelope 
with  deeply-lighted  eyes. 

“I  am  happy,  Mistress,”  she  said  in  a  bit¬ 
ing  voice.  “Oh,  I  am  happy!  I  have  paid 
my  debt  to  the  man  who  gave  me  to  you.  God 
remembered  me  and  let  me  work  it  out.  And 
you — do  you  not  rejoice  also?” 

“Yes,”  said  Penelope,  “yes — I  do  rejoice 
— for — he  will  never  forget  and — I,  too,  will 
have  a  memory.” 

Then  Patience,  whispering,  did  recount  all 
that  happened  in  the  passage.  The  two  young 


228  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


heads  were  bent  together.  They  sat  with 
hands  entwined  like  friends,  and  they  had  for¬ 
got  that  they  were  mistress  and  maid — of  such 
great  potency  is  love. 

“But  I  did  regret  the  betrayal  of  the  sol¬ 
dier,”  said  Patience  at  the  end,  “for  his  eyes 
beguiled  me,  and  my  mouth  is  still  sweet  with 
the  honey  of  his  kiss.  He  could  have  killed 
me,  I  avow,  from  the  fury  of  his  glance,  and 
yet,  when  I  sat  me  down  beside  him  where  he 
lay  trussed  like  a  chicken  for  the  spit,  and 
told  him  all,  his  blue  glance  softened,  and  he 
said,  ‘Egad!  Mistress,  I  had  not  known  that 
there  were  such  gallant  women  living !  And  I 
come  through  this  with  my  head  I’ll  have  you 
for  mine  or  wish  your  Buckskins  had  done  for 
me  in  truth!’  He  is  to  tell  the  story  we  made 
for  him;  and  small  danger  he  will  deviate 
a  hair’s  breadth,  for  His  Excellency,  your 
father,  would  make  short  work  of  a  soldier 
that  could  be  bought  by  a  woman’s  kiss. 
Come,  my  mistress,  let  me  robe  you  for  bed, 
for  you  are  all  but  falling  with  fatigue.” 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


CHAPER  XII 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 

ON  the  Jamestown  pike  the  feet  of  the  big 
roan  horse  made  steady  music.  The  dark  and 
the  rain  were  thick  on  every  side.  The  for¬ 
ests  that  Patrick  Henry  loved  seemed  to  reach 
out  hurrying  hands  to  push  them  forward. 
The  man  in  the  saddle  visioned  the  coaches  far 
ahead — how  far  ahead! — lurching  through  the 
mire  as  they  neared  the  fateful  Richmond,  and 
St.  John’s  church  that  stood  there.  On  the 
morrow  would  be  gathered  within  its  sacred 
walls  those  firebrands  of  freedom,  and  their 
opponents,  the -Whigs  and  Tories,  who  repre¬ 
sented  the  best  thought  and  character  of  their 
respective  parties.  There  would  the  crux  of 
the  stirring  be  reached.  There  and  then 
would  the  new  land  heave  up  to  fight  for  her¬ 
self  and  her  children,  or  remain  forever 
chained. 


231 


232  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


Patrick  Henry,  the  patriot,  raised  a  hand 
and  let  it  fall — and  the  roan  horse  galloped 
on. 

Night  and  rain  and  the  steady  beat  of  the 
faithful  feet! 

From  time  to  time  the  man  laid  a  loving 
hand  on  the  flowing  maneu  His  lips  were 
set  and  hard. 

Roanie  was  trim  and  lean  as  his  master,  fit 
in  every  fibre.  He  moved  like  an  engine — 
steadily,  smoothly,  easily. 

The  hours  passed. 

Once  and  again  the  man  leaned  down  and 
spoke  to  him  softly,  with  such  vibrant  feeling 
in  the  silver  voice  as  none  but  one  woman  had 
ever  heard,  and  the  faithful  animal  responded 
with  a  longer  stride,  a  more  gallant  burst  of 
speed. 

Hour  by  hour  the  night  went  by. 

Grey  dawn  showed  them  passing  like  ghosts 
in  the  rain. 

Day — and  the  two,  so  steadily  toiling,  were 
gaunt  with  their  effort. 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  288 


Sometimes  Patrick  Henry  leaped  from  the 
saddle,  and  with  his  hand  upon  the  horn,  ran 
by  the  big  roan’s  side  for  weary  miles. 

When  he  could  not  longer  run  he  re¬ 
mounted  to  regain  his  breath,  the  good  horse 
galloping  on.  But  there  was  red  in  Roanie’s 
flaring  nostrils,  his  bloodshot  eyes  were 
strained.  His  gallant  crest  was  low,  and  the 
lean  ribs  heaved  above  the  heart  that  would 
not  falter.  His  master’s  face  was  drawn  and 
white,  and  when  he  looked  at  his  friend  the 
blue  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears. 

“It  may  mean  death,  my  lad,”  he  gasped  be¬ 
tween  his  laboring  breaths  as  he  ran,  “but  with¬ 
out  your  help  I  cannot  win — and  what  is  life 
to  you  or  me  in  this  great  moment?” 

The  early  day  was  seething  with  the  travail 
in  the  town.  The  streets  were  filled  with  talk¬ 
ing  people.  There  were  hot  words,  and  the 
bailiffs  were  busy  right  and  left;  for  war  was 
whining  in  the  rainy  winds,  and  father  was 

against  son,  brother  turned  from  brother.  In 
» 

the  church  upon  the  green,  throngs  waited, 


234  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


changed,  shifted,  packed  themselves  among 
the  pews,  and  came  and  went  again.  Speak¬ 
ers  were  already  in  their  seats  and  others  com¬ 
ing  every  minute. 

In  the  high  pew  near  the  outer  door  there 
sat  one  whose  white  face  was  rapt,  like  a  mar¬ 
tyr’s  on  the  rack,  but  whose  poor  heart  lay  like 
a  dead  thing  in  her  breast — Doxey  Fair- 
weather,  King’s  man  and  loyalist,  but  traitor 
to  herself.  And  for  some  vague  and  pitiful 
reason  she  carried,  held  tight  beneath  her  cape, 
an  ancient  violin.  In  the  tragedy  of  the  des¬ 
perate  time  it  was  her  only  link  with  the  man 
she  had  betrayed,  the  last  poor  semblance  of 
the  great  love  he  had  offered  her.  What 
strange  comfort  it  may  have  given  her,  what 
hitter  tears  had  bathed  its  fragile  form,  only 
her  own  soul  knew. 

Back  and  forth  in  the  little  church  the  ora¬ 
tors  swayed  the  masses. 

Stick  to  the  King — and  suffer !  Or  declare 
for  themselves — and  fight! 

Mr.  Merwin,  but  newly  arrived  with  His 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  235 


Excellency  the  Governor  of  Virginia,  flung 
himself  before  the  crowd  and  flayed  them 
alive  as  traitors  to  King  George.  The  fire 
of  his  vehemence  swept  across  them  like  a 
flail,  and  here  and  there  the  effect  was  notice¬ 
able.  Mr.  Jefferson  himself,  pale  and  steady, 
spoke  from  a  heart  surcharged  and  steadfast. 

Gentlemen  from  all  the  Colonies  were  there, 
and  all  were  grave  and  tense.  Mr.  Randolph, 
his  white  head  and  venerable  mien  giving  him 
weight  and  dignity,  spoke  like  a  second  Dan¬ 
iel.  And  again  the  effect  shone  out.  There 
were  soldiers  in  the  King’s  uniform  all  about 
the  green.  The  good  man  pictured  war  and 
its  inevitable  result. 

The  Colonies  prevail  against  the  armies  of 
the  King?  Impossible! 

And  what  would  be  the  fate  of  those  who 
uttered  treason  now,  when  the  rebellion 
should  have  been  put  down?  Could  any  tell 
him  that?  He  begged  them  to  think  of  their 
women  and  children. 

Mr.  Washington,  standing  by  a  window 


236  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


with  folded  arms,  sighed,  though  his  eyes  were 
deep  with  visions.  Perchance  he  felt  a  pre¬ 
sage  of  Valley  Forge!  Who  can  say? 

He  sighed  again,  and  drew  a  hand  across  his 
forehead,  for  the  fate  of  his  country  hung 
quivering  in  the  balance  upon  these  gentle¬ 
men’s  decision — and  how  they  would  decide 
he  could  not  know. 

Suddenly  the  hand  that  rested  on  his  sleeve 
gripped  down  upon  his  arm.  His  eyes  nar¬ 
rowed  like  a  hawk’s.  For  what  was  this  that 
came  in  from  the  forest  to  cross  the  narrow 
green — what  wild  scarecrows  of  man  and 
horse,  that  ran  together  in  erratic  arcs? 

They  made  the  green’s  edge,  staggered  out 
a  little  way  upon  it,  and  then,  as  if  there  were 
no  more  to  do,  as  if  the  great  call  grew  dim 
in  his  drooping  ears,  the  big  horse,  covered 
with  mud  and  rain  and  sweat,  spread  wide  his 
buckling  legs,  lurched  forward  and  down,  and 
lay  in  sudden  peace.  The  man  sprang  clear, 
stooped  to  lay  his  lips  to  the  broad  forehead, 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  237 

and  came  on  toward  the  church,  swaying  as 
he  ran. 

At  the  door  they  let  him  by,  for  he  was  not 
to  be  gainsaid. 

In  the  midst  of  Mr.  Randolph’s  mounting 
fervor  there  was  a  sudden  awful  silence,  a 
stir  and  shuffle  and  a  craning  of  necks.  For 
there  staggered  up  the  aisle  a  tragic  figure  of 
mud  and  weariness,  of  white  fire  and  undying 
faith.  Its  fringed  garments  hung  sodden 
along  the  lean  muscles,  its  mouth  was  open,  its 
deep  eyes  were  points  of  living  flame. 

Mr.  Randolph  fell  back  from  the  open  floor, 
and  Patrick  Henry  stood  swaying  in  his  place. 

The  packed  masses  that  filled  the  church 
leaned  forward  in  their  seats,  their  breath¬ 
ing  stilled,  their  senses  gripped  with  the  sud¬ 
den  import  of  destiny;  while  in  that  pew  by 
the  outer  door  a  girl  in  a  hooded  cape  rose 
straight  up  on  her  feet  and  swayed  toward 
him  helplessly.  Her  dark  eyes  stared  in  aw¬ 
ful  unbelief.  Her  pale  mouth  was  open,  and, 


238  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


for  what  reason  she  did  not  know,  tears  of 
holy  joy  were  on  her  cheeks. 

The  newcomer  raised  a  hand  to  his  fore¬ 
head,  but  the  old  fur  cap  was  gone,  lost  un¬ 
noticed  by  the  way.  He  bowed  to  the  chair 
and  to  the  massed  convention  and,  with  sub¬ 
lime  effrontery,  took  the  floor.  With  his  la¬ 
boring  breath  spacing  his  words  he  began  to 
speak. 

“Mr.  President,”  he  said,  gasping.  “No 
man  thinks — more  highly — of  the  patriotism 
— abilities — of  the  worthy  gentlemen  who 
have  just  addressed  the  house.  But  different 
men  see  the  same  subject  in  different  lights; 
and  therefore,  I  hope  it  will  not  be  thought 
disrespectful  to  those  gentlemen  if,  entertain¬ 
ing  as  I  do,  opinions — character — opposite  to 
theirs,  I  shall  speak  forth  my  sentiments  freely 
and  without  reserve.” 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  breast  heaving 
with  the  deep  breath  which  he  so  sorely  needed. 
When  he  went  on,  the  tones  of  his  voice  had 
begun  to  take  on  that  vibrant  quality  which 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  239 


rang  on  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  like  a  taut 
wire  thrummed. 

“This  is  no  time  for  ceremony.  The  ques¬ 
tion  before  the  house  is  one  of  awful  moment 
to  this  country.  For  my  own  part  I  consider 
it  as  nothing  less  than  a  question  of  freedom 
or  slavery.  Should  I  keep  back  my  opinions 
at  such  a  time  through  fear  of  giving  offense, 
I  should  consider  myself  as  guilty  of  treason 
towards  my  country — ” 

Here  the  German,  von  Kneibling,  biting  his 
nails  in  anger,  near  where  sat  Governor  Dun- 
more  red  with  chagrin  and  helpless  wrath, 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  flung  out  a  doubled  fist. 

“Traitor!”  he  cried  in  a  booming  guttural. 
“Traitor  now!” 

But  a  sibilant  hiss  from  all  sides  silenced 
him  and  the  speaker  continued  as  if  there  had 
been  no  interruption. 

“ — and  of  an  act  of  disloyalty  toward  the 
Majesty  of  Heaven,  which  I  revere  above  all 
earthly  kings. 

“Mr.  President,  it  is  natural  to  man  to  in- 


240  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


dulge  in  the  illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt 
to  shut  our  eyes  against  a  painful  truth  and 
listen  to  the  song  of  the  siren  till  she  trans¬ 
forms  us  into  beasts.  For  my  part,  whatever 
anguish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am  willing  to 
know  the  whole  truth ;  to  know  the  worst  and 
to  provide  for  it.” 

There  was  a  deathly  stillness  in  the  crowded 
church.  Men  leaned  forward  with  clenched 
hands,  and  beads  of  sweat  breaking  on  their 
foreheads.  The  speaker’s  face  was  lifted, 
glowing  like  a  lamp.  His  eloquent  hands 
were  held  out  toward  his  audience,  palms  up¬ 
ward,  quietly  beseeching. 

“I,”  said  Patrick  Henry,  “have  but  one 
lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided;  and  that 
is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no  way 
of  judging  the  future  but  by  the  past.  Suf¬ 
fer  not  yourselves  to  be  betrayed  by  a  kiss. 
Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a  work  of 
reconciliation?” 

A  mutter  of  anger  came  from  the  King’s 
men,  but  the  patriot  swept  on  like  an  army 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  241 

with  banners.  He  set  before  them  truths  that 
could  not  be  gainsaid.  He  showed  them  a 
future  of  slavery,  and  set  beside  it  liberty. 
He  played  on  their  hearts  like  a  wind  on  a 
golden  harp,  and  their  faces  blanched  with  the 
tenseness  of  their  feelings. 

“There  is  no  longer  room  for  any  hope,”  he 
said.  “If  we  wish  to  be  free,  we  must  fight! 
I  repeat  it,  sir,  we  must  fight!  An  appeal  to 
arms  and  to  the  God  of  Hosts  is  all  that  is  left 
us!” 

Someone  sighed  among  the  packed  throngs, 
and  the  whistling  sound  cut  in  like  the  whine 
of  blades. 

Patrick  Henry,  his  face  white  now  as 
moulded  wax,  drew  his  gaunt  form  up  like 
a  lance  in  rest,  and  tossing  back  his  unbound 
hair,  thundered  home  his  tragic  challenge  to 
the  world. 

“Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in  the  holy 
cause  of  liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that 
which  we  possess,  are  invincible  by  any  force 
which  our  enemy  can  send  against  us!  There 


242  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


is  no  retreat  but  in  submission  and  slavery! 
Our  chains  are  forged!  Their  clanking  can 
be  heard  on  the  plains  of  Boston!  The  war 
is  inevitable — and  let  it  come !  Gentlemen 
may  cry  peace,  peace! — but  there  is  no  peace. 
The  war  is  actually  begun!  The  next  gale 
that  sweeps  from  the  north  will  bring  to  our 
ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms! 

“What  is  it  that  gentlemen  wish?  Is  life 
so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased 
at  the  price  of  chains  and  slavery? 

“Forbid  it,  Almighty  God! 

“I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take; 
but  as  for  me — ” 

The  flaming  face  was  raised  aloft,  as  if  the 
speaker  had  forgot  his  earthly  audience  and 
were  speaking  to  that  great  tribunal  of  the 
dim  beyond.  The  clutching  hands,  trembling 
visibly,  reached  desperately  upward,  as  if  to 
grasp  the  robes  of  Deity. 

“—as  for  me,”  cried  the  resounding  voice, 
breaking  with  the  weight  of  passion — 

“Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death T 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  243 


He  ceased  abruptly,  the  appealing  hands 
dropped,  and  he  stood  shaking  in  every  limb, 
spent  with  the  effort  of  his  life. 

An  awful  silence  wrapped  the  convention. 
Not  a  rustle  of  a  garment,  not  a  drawn  breath, 
broke  the  stillness.  Then  a  man  rose  and 
came  pushing  to  the  fore.  Another  followed. 

In  one  moment,  the  mass  broke  and  poured 
in  upon  the  floor.  Hands  were  laid  on  the 
table.  White  faces  were  thrust  forward. 
Burning  eyes  took  up  the  flare  of  fire  which 
Patrick  Henry  had  borne  among  them  from 
his  wilderness. 

The  wavering  was  done,  the  structure 
finished,  the  surging  masses  welded. 

A  Cause  was  born,  an  army  established,  a 
country  was  heaving  up  to  face  a  glorious  fu¬ 
ture. 

The  patriots  surged  close  to  pledge  them¬ 
selves  and  their  constituents  to  the  casting  of 
the  die.  Colony  by  colony  their  representa¬ 
tives  came  and  crowded  in  the  aisles. 

And  the  Governor  of  Virginia,  for  once. 


244  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


departed  from  an  assemblage  and  was  not 
missed.  None  knew  of  his  going  save  his  own 
party,  passing  out  with  black  looks  that  prom¬ 
ised  grim  reprisal. 

They  left  the  church  and  Richmond,  know¬ 
ing  that  their  reign  was  tottering  before  those 
earnest  gentlemen  who  were  seeing,  at  last, 
the  light. 

Presently,  there  came  out  to  the  broad  steps 
of  the  church  a  tall  figure  in  bedraggled  buck¬ 
skins  who  stood  for  a  moment  and  looked  with 
unseeing  eyes  at  the  bare  trees  that  fringed 
the  green,  so  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  the 
girl  who  came  slowly  to  his  side — a  girl  in  a 
hooded  cape,  whose  fair  face  was  wet  with  a 
rain  of  tears,  and  whose  tragic  dark  eyes 
yearned  upon  him. 

In  hands  that  shook  beyond  control,  she 
held  out  to  him  a  violin. 

“Sir,”  said  Doxey  Fairweather,  tremulously, 
“once  you  did  play  me  ‘The  Rose  and  Thorn,’ 
and,  failing  of  its  sweet  intent,  gave  me  this 
against  the  time  when  I  would  listen.  Though 


THE  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES  245 


you  have  spurned  me  since,  though  you  have 
lost  my  King  his  cause,  though  I  did  betray 
you — still  I  am  prisoner  to  the  tender  melody, 
for  love  is  greater  than  all  else,  and  I  cannot 
help  but  love  you.  I  pray  you  to  forgive 
me.” 

Then  indeed  did  the  man  shake  himself  from 
his  high  dreams  of  patriotism  and  look  con¬ 
sciously  upon  her ;  upon  the  sweet  mouth,  quiv¬ 
ering  in  its  gallant  pleading;  upon  the  white 
cheeks,  wet  with  tears. 

For  a  moment  he  looked.  Then  he  came  to 
her  and,  opening  his  arms,  took  her  in  upon  his 
breast,  in  sublime  indifference  to  the  eyes  be¬ 
holding. 

“ Sweetheart,”  he  whispered,  with  his  lips 
against  her  hair  where  her  hood  had  fallen 
back,  “love  knows  no  forgiveness,  since  love 
can  do  no  wrong.  I  know  only  that  you  are 
my  woman  by-ordinary,  and  that  I  love  you  to 
the  foundations  of  my  being — and  shall  to 
world’s  end.” 

And  in  the  midst  of  his  great  glory  he 


246  A  LIGHTER  OF  FLAMES 


raised  his  head  and  looked  tenderly  and  sadly 
to  where,  a  little  way  across  the  green,  there 
lay  a  gaunt  roan  horse,  dead  for  its  country’s 
sake. 


